


Between Shadows and Sunlight

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal, And then other stuff, Awkward, BUT FOR HOW MUCH LONGER, Blowjobs, Conversation, Edging, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Hand Jobs, LIke I know what they're gonna do?, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rimming, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Is a Virgin, Sherlock is no longer a virgin, Srsly so much talking, allusions to masturbation, idk - Freeform, wait and see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: ‘Well. Here I am, at your mercy. Clock’s ticking, Sherlock.’





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to start posting this until it was finished, but eh. I've got quite a few chapters in hand, and it'll be nice to post something with a simple premise. One chapter a week, I should think. Enjoy!

 

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t look at Moriarty as they enter the cell, but he’s aware of him in his peripheral vision. You don’t look away from the Devil, after all. That would be stupid.

‘I like what you’ve done with the place. But Big Brother will tell you, my dear. Grey walls won’t break me. I’ll just redecorate.’

It’s a nothing statement, said for no reason. Moriarty knows very well that Sherlock is not going to use Mycroft’s tactics. And they both know the previous cell, the one that became a shrine to Sherlock’s name, is only twenty-three feet away. Two doors down on the left. There’s a different sort of room sandwiched between there and here.

Sherlock moves to the side of the door, and puts his hands behind his back. Moriarty wanders around, looking bored, his eyes flicking over the two-way mirror before he comes to a halt. He has a strange walk at times, Sherlock thinks. Shoulders back, hips thrust out. Not in a way designed to appeal, more a physical manifestation of his utter boredom with the world. There’s no need for him to slouch quite that obviously, but-

‘Well. Here I am, at your mercy. Clock’s ticking, Sherlock.’

The Irish drawl is more pronounced than ever. Sherlock scans his face, lingering a beat or two longer at the eyes. Those insane eyes. There’s no light in them. No hint this was his plan all along, or that he really believes Sherlock can do what he said he could, or holds out hope for it. It’s like staring into a void, and yes, the void stares back. Unreadable. _Fascinating_.

Sherlock unclasps his fingers, and lets his hands relax at his sides. Moriarty doesn’t move an inch, wearing that lovely suit with careless disdain, while still not ruining the cut of it. Hands in his pockets, pelvis forward, jaw jutting. Everything is just slightly pushed _out_ , like he’s daring the air to fucking touch him. All except the eyes. They suck everything _in_ , absorbing the world, daring Sherlock to try and escape.

‘Won’t you sit down?’

Moriarty continues to not move. There’s not so much of a flicker of eyelid, and still he manages to convey disgust at this show of pointless manners. Sherlock swallows to let it be known he’s a little nervous, noting the way that does garner movement. The tiniest glance to watch his throat move. It makes him swallow again.

Eventually, Moriarty deigns to play his role.

‘Why bother? You’re not keeping me here. You’re just preparing the other place.’

‘There’s no need to be uncomfortable until then. It may take a while.’

Sherlock will play his role too. And the nervousness he _doesn’t_ show is entirely genuine. Moriarty knows where they’re going. He knows what’s going to happen. He knows how far Sherlock is willing to go. And Sherlock knows he’ll do it, too – which begs the question of who is actually in charge here. What was it he’d said to John? The only reason Moriarty was in a cell was because he chose to be there. Something along those lines. For some reason, his thoughts are slightly jumbled.

Moriarty smiles. He doesn’t look like a snake when he does it, because snakes can’t actually smile, and when their mouths turn up at the corners it’s nowhere near as insidious as what Sherlock is looking at right now. The man smiles like a cat, perhaps. A lizard? Oh, what does it matter. Whatever it resembles, it’s more unnerving than the shark’s grin he showed off in Baker Street after the trial.

‘Having second thoughts, Sherlock?’

‘No.’

‘Of course you’re not. Not with such a noble cause at stake.’ He spreads his arms wide suddenly, the movement and the rustling of his coat incongruous in the small space. ‘Come and get me, then. Bring out the whips and chains. Or the injections; I _like_ those. I bet you’d enjoy mixing up the formulas. Seeing how much you can make me hurt, but without all the mess of pliers and thumbscrews.’

Moriarty’s eyes go wide, mocking. Sherlock doesn’t move, or speak.

‘But you don’t mind mess, do you, my dear? All those body parts in your kitchen. Are you going to cut bits off me? Think that’ll work?’

Sherlock raises his hand, palm facing up. ‘Give it to me.’

Moriarty looks shocked. Shocked!

‘ _S_ _herlock_. At least buy me dinner first.’

Sherlock doesn’t move. He keeps his face utterly impassive, watching Moriarty cackle and grin while the dark gaze doesn’t move from his. This is what it’s all about, really. Watching each other in silence, while an outward show continues for the benefit of everyone else.

In the end, there is a theatrical sigh. The gun is produced from under Moriarty’s right arm. The instant it is placed in Sherlock’s palm, he knows his hunch was right. It’s only holding one bullet. He closes his fingers around it, flicks the safety on with his thumb and slips it into his pocket. Moriarty smirks. His eyes belong to a dead thing. Sherlock adjusts the front of his jacket, and moves to the door.

‘I won’t keep you waiting long.’

‘Oh,’ says Moriarty, his gaze turning upwards to examine the solid stone ceiling, before rolling down to look at the mirror. ‘I know you won’t. Tick tock, darling. Tick tock.’

 

*

 

Mycroft turns to him as soon as he enters the tiny room. He looks relaxed enough, but even in the darkness Sherlock can tell his hand is gripping his umbrella too tight.

‘Give it to Miles, there.’

‘No.’ The gun is heavy in his pocket. Heavier than its actual weight. It holds the combined load of four lives – five if he counts his own - and Sherlock won’t let it go. ‘I’ll need it later.’

‘Sherlock-‘

‘Just don’t bother. It’s done now.’

They are both looking into the cell. Moriarty hasn’t moved, and he’s staring straight at Sherlock. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably got blueprints of the entire complex, and simply knows where the last person behind the glass would be standing. It’s still a touch unnerving.

‘This isn’t what we agreed. We never planned for _this_.’

‘We should have. We knew what he might do.’

‘Exactly.’

Mycroft’s voice is pure ice. Not just cold, either. He’s angry. Really angry. Sherlock spares him a glance, then returns to his…captive doesn’t seem quite the right word.

‘You really think I should have let him kill himself.’

‘Of course I do! A man like him – Sherlock, I know you would have had to leave, but that’s what we _agreed_. His web must be destroyed. I don’t understand-‘

‘No, you don’t.’

But Sherlock does, which is why this has happened. And he can tell himself it’s all about beating Moriarty in a fair fight, face-to-face as it should be at the end, between them. He suspects Moriarty knows that’s not quite true. He suspects the man…if not planned this, exactly, certainly knew it was a possibility. Even hoped for it, perhaps.

‘Tell me what he said. Tell me how he twisted you into this, and maybe I can find a way to twist you out.’

Sherlock smiles, not looking away from the glass. He could swear Moriarty smiles back, but it’s probably just a trick of the glaring overhead light.

‘It wasn’t what he said, brother mine. It was what I said.’

 

*

 

‘You think you can _make_ me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?’

‘Yes. So do you.’

‘Sherlock, your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.’

‘Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to _burn_.’

 

*

 

Moriarty is sauntering ‘round and around, hands back in his pockets, humming. Sherlock finds himself trying to catch the tune, listening extra hard each time he passes the front of the mirror. It’s too quiet. He can’t follow it. Mycroft, though, appears unnaturally nervous. It shows in the way his words have become more clipped, and his stance is a study in relaxation as opposed to actually being relaxed. It’s understandable, of course. Mycroft has always been controlling, in the guise of protection. Perhaps it really is protection. Sherlock doesn’t examine it closely enough to find out.

‘What are you waiting for? Much as I hate to agree with the man, time is ticking on.’

‘There’s plenty of time.’

‘A week may seem like-‘

‘I won’t need a week.’

‘Sherlock-‘

‘No.’ He turns to his brother, and stands even straighter. ‘How much longer will your people be?’

‘Twenty minutes.’

‘So, half an hour.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The extra ten for when they go back in, and remove all the bugs and cameras I specifically said were not to be installed in the first place.’

Mycroft’s mouth twists. ‘If you think I’m leaving you in his hands, without-‘

‘ _All_ of them, Mycroft. I mean it. It isn’t going to work if he thinks he’s playing to an audience.’

The unspoken _Sherlock_ sits between them, but never makes it past Mycroft’s lips. He just looks sour, and after a stretched pause, opts for something far more painful than simple admonishment.

‘On your head be it. You know if you fail, they’ll all die.’

Sherlock is acutely aware. But also of the fact that, as he turns back to watch Moriarty pace, he doesn’t feel scared. There is tension. A little apprehension at how it’ll play out, which key will unlock which door. But he knows he’s not going to fail. Moriarty knows he’s not going to fail. There is one possibility that doesn’t bear thinking about, but there’s not enough data to work on for that eventuality. Even Moriarty won’t know for sure, yet.

‘Yes,’ he murmurs, as that humming wafts past again, a whisper pulled apart by the softest air. ‘But I won’t let that happen.’

Four lives. He’s Sherlock Holmes. He can save four lives. He has to.

 

*

‘There you are. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.’

Sherlock doesn’t bother saying _no you didn’t_. He just meets the black eyes that honed in on his the second he opened the door, then stands aside and waves _after you_. Moriarty smirks again, and swivels on the heel of one handmade Italian shoe. A neat movement, no energy wasted. It lacks his usual laconic show, so perhaps he’s feeling nervous after all. But that’s hard to believe. James Moriarty doesn’t look like he’s been nervous about anything in his life.

‘No buff and beautiful boys to walk me out? No handcuffs? I’m disappointed.’

‘There’s no need. You’re not going to try and escape. You’ll just have to make do with me.’

Moriarty pauses next to him, half in the doorway, half not. His eyes flick up and down, and Sherlock has to resist the urge to straighten the front of his jacket.

‘You’ll just have to do then, I suppose.’

It’s almost a whisper, and there’s no attempt to hide the insinuation. But Moriarty’s eyes are searching his again, and there’s still no light or flare in them. They’re as dead as they were when Sherlock stepped on to the rooftop. Even the curiousity shown by movement has a faint whiff of being staged. But Sherlock’s not sure. How can he be? He might know he’s going to win, but he doesn’t yet know exactly how. Not the details.

‘I’ll do my best to satisfy,’ he says, crisply. ‘Shall we?’

Moriarty’s lip curls. ‘We shall,’ he says, and turns left out of the door, then takes a right, heading straight for the exit even though he’s been blindfolded both times he’s been brought here before.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

_Day One_

 

Moriarty says nothing in the car. He doesn’t look out of the window, or do more than glance at the back of the driver’s head. It’s to show he doesn’t need to guess where they’re going. Sherlock ignores him in return, though he does watch London pass by. Perhaps someone more morbid, or more uncertain, would consider it taking the chance to look at the city in what might be his last week alive. He dismisses this thought when it comes, and focuses on his prisoner. He doesn’t have to look at him to know his face is completely impassive behind those shades – shades Sherlock insisted Mycroft give back, when he’d been inclined to confiscate them – and he doesn’t need to examine his posture for clues to his state of mind, or levels of anxiety. At this stage, Moriarty will show nothing he doesn’t want to be seen. Sherlock is not going to pretend sitting in such close proximity isn’t uncomfortable, but neither of them are going to make an overt show of it.

‘Odd, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe we should decide to skip the awkwardness, and become instant BFFs instead.’

Sherlock chooses to ignore the gently mocking tone. He opens his mouth to say, _we could try_ but what comes out is, ‘what’s a BFF?’

Moriarty looks at him, and it’s a gesture too quick to be anything but genuine surprise. As is the quiet huff of laughter.

‘Best Friends Forever, Sherlock. You really are hopeless, aren’t you?’

‘Apparently. But no, I already have one of those.’

There is an imperceptible shift in the air. In mood, or a miniscule twitch of muscle perhaps. Sherlock has the impression Moriarty is resisting an involuntary desire to turn his face away. It’s a little strange, because he always appears effortless in his demeanour, never like he’s suppressing anything. It’s a new piece of information already.

‘Of course you do. Thank you for not being boring and attempting to confiscate my phone, by the way.’

‘You’re welcome. My brother took some convincing. You’ll still have to give it up for large portions of every day.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not because I’m afraid of you sending a kill order. I’m simply not spending a week with a man staring at a screen.’

‘You’re one to talk.’

Sherlock shrugs lightly, and looks out of the window again. It’s lunchtime, and London is bright and cold. He’s been awake for more than forty-eight hours, and is starting to feel it. ‘You’re a prisoner, Moriarty. A willing captive is still a captive.’

‘Don’t state the obvious.’ There’s a sudden bite in his tone. ‘It’s boring.’

He’s not going to rise to it. This week hinges on him remaining in control, as much as possible. ‘My apologies,’ he murmurs, and says nothing more until the car draws to a halt.

 

*

 

His phone rings when they reach the doorstep. Moriarty looks amused, glancing up and down the deserted street.

‘Big Brother’s on his game today.’

Sherlock’s eyes go to the CCTV at the corner, pointed directly at them. Then to the not at all subtle presence of very large men near the ‘road closed’ signs, and entirely fake roadworks keeping any passing vehicles or pedestrians away. He answers his phone. He’d put it on speaker, but there’s no need. Mycroft’s voice rings out clearly in the absence of traffic.

‘Just letting you know there’s a man in the hall. He has the new keys, and a few other items to keep James going until you make other arrangements. Also to let you know that Mrs Hudson is safe at her sister’s-‘

Moriarty snorts quietly.

‘-and John is proving very difficult. We tried to take him to _his_ sister’s-‘

‘He’s at Lestrade’s.’

Sherlock blinks at this, and Moriarty doesn’t deign to explain how he knows when he hasn’t looked at his phone for hours.

‘…yes, well, that’s reassuring, isn’t it? Your two friends with snipers trained on them, under the same roof, and the man who wants to kill them moving in with you. How are you feeling about this now, Sherlock?’

‘You’re wasting my time. Don’t call unless it’s important.’

He hangs up. Moriarty looks bored. Sherlock opens the door to Baker Street. As soon as he does, a man and a woman emerge from Speedy’s with a new lock in hand, and a bag of tools.

‘This really isn’t necessary.’

They say nothing. They just wait, so Sherlock gestures his prisoner inside. As soon as the door closes behind them, work commences on making it Moriarty-proof, as if, Sherlock thinks, such a thing were possible. Further progress is halted by the presence of Mycroft’s man blocking the stairs, and there’s a decidedly irritated sigh.

‘This is like a very bad, very boring obstacle course. But, my _my_. Aren’t you a big one.’

He is indeed huge. And silent, as he holds a leather bag out towards Moriarty, who removes his shades and stares at it as if he’s never been handed anything in his life before.

‘If Mycroft’s not going to provide bellboy service, I’m moving out.’

Sherlock takes the bag, and then a small ring of new keys. An alarm system - with discreet panic buttons in various locations - was installed this morning, which he also told Mycroft was not necessary, but it’s done now. The big man then pulls a phone charger out of his pocket, and holds it out. This Moriarty _does_ take, with a glint of amusement.

‘Adorable, all of you.’

‘Right then. Can we get on?’  Sherlock nods curtly at the man, who eases his way past the locksmiths.

And then they’re alone. Sherlock finds himself staring at Moriarty, who allows it without any particular attempt to gaze back for once. The pale skin is…well, he can’t really say ‘paler than normal’, as he has few frames of reference. But paler than it was at Riley’s flat, or on the roof this morning, or at the Old Bailey. The skin is a little stretched around his eyes, and Sherlock suddenly understands the desire for sunglasses. Moriarty is _tired_. He would have stayed awake for the duration of the game too, even when he wasn’t required on stage. He’d have been watching, of course, Sherlock knows that – but it’s still strange to account anything as human as tiredness to this man. Physically, at least. It’s all too easy to see the other kind of exhaustion.

Eyebrows raise at the scrutiny. Sherlock blinks and looks down, then leads the way up the stairs. The bag is placed to one side as soon as he enters the living room.

‘Oh, for God’s sake. They’ve _cleaned_.’

There’s another quiet huff of laughter behind him. Sherlock ignores it and stalks around, glaring at the neatly shelved books, all trace of dust disappeared, papers stacked and everything, _everything_ , hoovered and polished and tidied. The kitchen table is spotless and, as he discovers when he yanks open the fridge door, _every single body part_ has been taken away. There is a strong smell of disinfectant, and the thing is full of _food_.

He makes a sound of disgust, and turns. Moriarty is in his chair, as easy and comfortable as if he sits there every day.

‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at. I don’t know how to cook any of this.’

‘You’re a clever boy. You’ll work it out.’

‘I really won’t.’

‘You really will.’

There’s a pause, in which the moment of…humour? Distraction, maybe – dies. They look at each other from a distance of fifteen feet, and his indignation falls away. Moriarty has a unique talent for deadening the air between them, killing its ability to transmit sound. Sometimes it’s physically difficult to speak into it. It’s like his personality and malevolence extends far out from his body, flattening everyone into the corner, overwhelmed by the silent force of him. It’s a heady sensation and Sherlock can feel himself rising to meet it, refusing to get pushed aside. He may be nervous but he’s not scared, so he doesn’t look away. He can feel the _well?_ emanating from the man, as well as his own vague sensation of _what now?_ And that’s fine. The broad strokes of this plan fell into place straight away, but there were always going to be the bits like this that need negotiating. The simple fact of being in each other’s space.

‘You’ve never had a roommate before.’

‘Oh, well deduced.’ Moriarty does not make it sound like a compliment. ‘But you should be an expert by now, and I imagine you’re planning on teaching me.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Mm. Well. Come on then, Sherlock. I was promised breakage.’

‘Patience. For now, get up.’

‘If you’re going to complain about me being in your seat, this is going to be a very long week.’

‘No.’ Sherlock starts forward, and heads to the bookshelves. ‘Start looking.’

‘…oh. Right. You didn’t tell him that would be a bad idea?’

‘Of course I did.’

Moriarty stands, and removes his coat. He takes the desk, running his hand along the underside, as Sherlock feels in the corners of the shelves.

‘I hope he wouldn’t insult me by using anything detectable via computer.’

‘I shouldn’t think so, but you can use my laptop to check later, if you like.’

They work in silence. It does cross Sherlock’s mind that this might have been planned by Mycroft – and if it wasn’t, maybe he should have suggested it himself. Working together with a common goal is a cornerstone of connection, isn’t it? And connection is imperative if this is going to work.

Twenty minutes later, they’re empty-handed. Moriarty flicks a speck of dust off the sleeve of his jacket, looking disgusted. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’ll do my bedroom. You take the bathroom.’

‘…I suppose I should be annoyed to find either of those are necessary, but I’m more flattered than anything.’

‘Mycroft hardly cares about modesty. And it’s not as though you haven’t been under his eye before. Voluntarily, I might add.’

‘Yes yes, I’m quite aware. I’m sure he loved watching me getting stripped and beaten. And what about dear John’s room?’

‘Yes, that too. You might as well do it. Take the bag up, there’s clothes in it.’

‘Sherlock, if you think I’m wearing-‘

‘You can get your own couriered over tomorrow. I’ll make tea. Oh, and-‘ he whirls, and holds his hand out. ‘-your phone, please.’

Moriarty looks unimpressed, but Sherlock knows it would seem churlish to argue. A second later it’s drawn out, and dropped into his palm.

‘I wouldn’t try bypassing the security.’

‘I won’t. There’s no need.’ He slips it into his pocket. ‘John’s room is the most likely to be bugged, so be thorough, won’t you?’

The air turns icy for a second. Sherlock resists smiling, even when Moriarty flashes his teeth at him. ‘I’ll try my _very_ best, darling,’ he says, and picks up the leather bag before heading upstairs.

Left alone, Sherlock exhales slowly. It’s going to be a long week, even more so because he has to appear as relaxed as possible. He cannot show fear. He cannot ask about the guns aimed at his friends; he cannot be angry, or anxious, or uncertain. And he enjoys high pressure situations, but he has never in his life been up against a man like this. Someone very probably his intellectual equal, and more than a little bit insane. At any point, Moriarty could decide he’s bored of this and just kill everyone anyway. He could lose hope that Sherlock will break him, and ask for the gun. He could make a phone call and demand Sherlock kill himself right now, with no chance for escape. There was far more room to work up on the roof. If such a demand is made in here, there won’t be anywhere to go.

‘Sheeeeeerlock.’ He snaps out of his reverie and looks towards the stairs. Moriarty is halfway down, a tiny wired device dangling from his fingers. ‘Big Brother’s been _naughty_.’

‘Bloody idiot. I’m sorry.’

Moriarty blinks. Sherlock registers it as he moves towards him, thinks _bingo,_ and puts one foot on the stair so he can reach up to take the microphone. ‘Just the one?’

‘So far. Does he really suppose he’ll catch me talking to someone up there? He’s not nearly as clever as he thinks, is he?’

‘Debateable. Keep looking. I’ll make sure he knows we’ve found it later.’

‘I could always leave one or two. Feed him some disinformation.’

There’s no need to reply, apparently. Moriarty is already walking back upstairs, though he does glance over his shoulder and grin. ‘Nice use of ‘we’ there, by the way. I really feel like we’re _building_ something, you know?’

John’s door gets kicked shut with one expensively heeled shoe. Sherlock stares up with a slight feeling of dread. Which is stupid, because he knows what he’s doing is not – can never be – a surprise to Moriarty. He’s taking a very large gamble here, betting everything on his hunch. _So do you_ …he just assumed Moriarty thinks he can break him, and the man didn’t confirm it. But Sherlock doesn’t think he’s wrong. This has to be what he wants, or he wouldn’t be here at all.

He shakes the dread away and gets on with sweeping the rest of the flat. Truth be told, he doesn’t care if Mycroft sees any of this. But Moriarty can’t feel like he’s got an audience, or he’ll never let himself be real. Or maybe he’s always real? It’s hard to pin down someone so clearly unbalanced, but he’s going to have to. If he doesn’t, the consequences don’t bear thinking about.

 

*

 

Half an hour later, the bedroom and bathroom prove bug-free. He changes into pyjama trousers and a loose T-shirt, with his blue silk dressing gown over the top. These are the clothes he feels most comfortable in around the house – around anywhere, because he would quite happily walk outside in them, and not give a damn what anyone thinks.

It’s not quite as comfortable when James Moriarty will see them. The lack of shoes feels vulnerable, as does the obvious absence of defence. Knowing he doesn’t need a gun or knife is not the same as realising either would offer at least _some_ semblance of security. He berates himself for this as he makes tea. It’s just nerves, and now is not the time to suffer a lack of self-confidence. Even with a weapon, there’s no guarantee he’d win against Moriarty. He has no idea whether the man has fighting skills, beyond the clear physical strength in his arms and shoulders. There are times he appears uneven in his gait, and even a little uncoordinated…and still others when he’s graceful as a cat, swaggering along as if he can stay level while the world explodes around him. Which means everything Moriarty shows outwardly is just that, a show. He may never have hit a person in his life, or he could be an expert martial artist, a crack shot, a prime boxer. Sherlock has no idea.

‘I thought I could smell burning.’

Sherlock glances right, and words stick in his throat. Moriarty smiles, and folds himself into his chair, sitting on one bent leg and resting his arm across the knee of the other.

‘You’re thinking. About me, no less. I could power all the lights in London off the force of it.’

Sherlock looks away. Some part of him wants to laugh. ‘I’ll have a word with Mycroft about that, too,’ is all he says, with a vague gesture at the clothes.

Moriarty looks down at himself, as if he’s only now noticed what he’s wearing. A white T-shirt and grey jogging bottoms, just like he did when he was locked up. ‘Oh, this? A blast from the past. I must be kept in my place, of course.’

‘You can put your suit back on, if you want.’

He brings the tea tray, and sets it down. Moriarty shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t care less. Where are the biscuits?’

‘I don’t think there are any. I’ll-‘

‘-ask your brother, yes, I know. If he’s going to provide everything, I might as well have stayed in the cell. But I suppose this is more comfortable, in some ways.’

Sherlock picks up his cup, and blows delicately over the tea. Just like after the trial, all of this, except he’s wearing pyjamas and Moriarty is in a cheap tracksuit, and the air is starting to thrum between them in a whole new way. It had been high nerves and ice, that last meeting. A death threat, and impending doom. This is…he’s not sure. And that’s exactly the thing. Neither of them are sure, though they both know who’s going to win. But not _how_. Moriarty might know what it’ll take, but it’s only a hunch for Sherlock, and he doesn’t have unlimited time to find out if it’s right.

‘The implication being,’ he murmurs eventually, ‘that it’s less comfortable in others.’

‘Naturally. But you don’t need me to point those out. You don’t even know every way it’s going to get weird, yet.’

‘And you do, I suppose?’

Moriarty makes an indeterminate noise, a sort of ‘nyyyyeah’ sound, tilting his head from side to side. Interesting. He’s willing to admit to parts he may not be sure about. Sherlock watches him grin, and notes again the way it never reaches his eyes. They still look tired.

‘So what’s next, Sherlock?’

‘Bed.’

Eyebrows shoot up. The expression of surprise is almost delicate, because – of course – that’s how it’s designed to appear. ‘What did I say about buying me dinner first?’

Sherlock remains impassive. ‘I will be sleeping in my room, you in John’s. We’ve both been awake for days, and you know you want my best attempt. So we’ll both sleep, and eat when we wake up.’

‘And you’ll get on with this?’

‘Tick tock, I know. Yes, we’ll get on with this.’

Moriarty’s eyes are _so_ dark. They’re so still, and he doesn’t blink enough. Sherlock holds the gaze with as much equanimity as he can manage, sipping his tea, trying for perfect calm.

‘…have it your way. This is your party.’

Moriarty drains his tea, and stands up. The tracksuit trousers are far too big and loose on him, but it means they’ve hidden the toothbrush and paste he now pulls out of the pocket. Sherlock stifles the smile he wants to show. It’s remarkably pleasant, refreshing, to be in the same room as someone who knows what you’re going to say before you say it. No need for tedious explanations, even if he likes giving them, because it’s always fun to show people up. But this is…new. He’s only felt it with Mycroft before, but that comes with the price of animosity and resentment from a lifetime spent with only each other for intellectual company. Moriarty is different. Far, far more dangerous.

The air moves as he’s passed, Moriarty heading for the bathroom. ‘Sweet dreams, Sherlock…’

Sherlock does not try to hide the smile this time. It’s only tiny, and there’s no one in the room to see it. But despite everything…yes, he feels the dreams do have a chance of being sweet. Just a little. What a week this promises to be.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_Day Two – Morning. Very very early morning._

 

He has no idea what time he went to bed, and even less how long it took him to fall asleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind would not stop jumping between the rooftop - over and over, the _rooftop_ and every second of that electric conversation - and then his friends and where they are, what they’re thinking and how much trouble they’re causing Mycroft. There’s a silver lining to everything, and he very much enjoys thinking about the earful Mrs Hudson will be giving him at every opportunity.

And then, of course, the very real fact of having James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, asleep in the room above. A man on the very edge of existence, threatening to drag Sherlock’s world down with him. A man beyond a man; a demon, a spider, an untouchable force of nature. And yet – at least when Sherlock can calm his teeming mind back towards the rational – still just a man. He’d heard him brush his teeth yesterday. Flush the toilet. He saw him eat part of an apple once, and drink tea. Just a man.

Sherlock dreamt of a teacup. Lips. The crunch _slice_ of a blade into apple’s flesh. Eyes, and the black collar of a coat. Arms flung to the sky. But he did sleep and now he’s awake in the dark, feeling both refreshed and with the sort of ache that comes after days on his feet. Like his body’s been steamrollered, and only just sprung back into shape.

And there’s a light shining under his door.

He sits up as soon as he registers it. His clock says 02:17, and his brain says he’s been under for about ten hours and there is no hope of any more sleep. It also says there was not a light on when they retired yesterday, so Moriarty is awake and downstairs, and-

…oh, apparently he plays the violin. Not very well. Or maybe he’s just pretending, drawing the bow over two of the strings. Maybe its Sherlock’s wake-up call, but the playing is not very loud and he knows Moriarty, of all people in the world, could devise a more rude awakening if he felt like it.

The sound dies away. Sherlock gets up, and almost stalks out of his door but hesitates instead, standing behind it and listening for more. Only then does he realise his hesitation will be seen via the shadows underneath, so he takes his coat off the hook and fiddles in the pockets to make it seem as though there’s a reason for him to skulk in his own home. Retrieving his wallet, he opens the door. He’s not sure what he expects. Moriarty in his suit, certainly. Sitting, waiting. Calm, composed, with a smirk that says, _what kept you?_

He gets a man still in those awful tracksuit trousers, and white T-shirt. He gets a man with dishevelled hair and tired eyes, sitting on a bent leg on Sherlock’s chair, plucking aimlessly at the strings of his violin. Words die on Sherlock’s tongue as he watches Moriarty’s fingers touching the wound filaments, stroking them along the pads of his fingers. The room is lit only by the lamp and a small fire in the grate, bathing him in a warm and golden glow. Sherlock realises that too many moments have passed, and he hasn’t said anything. He’s probably blinked too many times.

But then information filters as it should. Moriarty’s hair is not lopsided, or sleep-mussed. It’s not artfully messy either, it’s just messy. The T-shirt is not wrinkled the way it should be if it were rolled around and softened between other cloth. And Moriarty could hide all of this if he wanted to, so he’s letting it be seen for a reason. He’s inviting scrutiny. It’s either a test, or he’s showing Sherlock a way towards breaking him.

He fills the kettle with water, and switches it on. Moriarty doesn’t look up.

‘You can sleep in my room,’ he says, and enters the bathroom to use the toilet and brush his teeth.

 

*

 

_Day Two – morning. Very early morning._

 

If nothing else, it’s an excellent way to reclaim his chair. He sits with a cup of tea cooling by his elbow, fingers steepled as he contemplates the day ahead. Mycroft phones at 4am, but he ignores it. At 5am, prompted by rustling sheets, he makes more tea and gets bread out. At quarter past five, Moriarty has emerged from the bathroom and is perched on the seat of John’s chair, staring at him.

He doesn’t look much better for the less than three hours sleep, but his eyes are no longer too tired to focus. They dart around, slicing the room into pieces – numbers, probably – but always return to Sherlock’s face. He lets them look, and just when it seems Moriarty might say something, he pushes himself out of his chair.

‘Breakfast?’

Whatever he was going to say changes to something more mundane. ‘Can you make anything other than toast?’

‘No. Well. I can boil an egg, but I don’t know when to make it stop. They’ll end up like grenades.’

‘Toast it is, then.’

He has a bet with himself as to how long it takes the man to give up and make food for himself. He can’t really imagine Moriarty cooking, and at the same time, he sort of can. It’s something that requires precision, to at least a small degree. There can be plenty of imagination involved. But no, Moriarty would never value an art dedicated to producing something that’ll be consumed in ten minutes. Too boring. Not enough noise or distraction, not enough _point_. Food is there to keep a person alive, after all.

‘No, I can’t cook.’

Sherlock pushes the lever on the toaster. He realises how everyone else feels when he appears to read their thoughts. Maybe he’ll stop doing that so often – or only when it’s particularly funny.

‘I apologise,’ he says, watching the wires inside the machine turn golden, then red. ‘Expecting you to sleep in John’s room was insensitive. You can have mine.’

There’s no reply, but he wasn’t expecting one. Silence hunkers down around them. Sherlock focuses on the tiny buzzing of the toaster, watching the bread catch and start to crisp, judging the moment the spring will pop. Butter. Jam and marmalade in bowls, with spoons. Tea in the big pot. Sugar for him, not for Moriarty.

‘I hope you’re going to provide tea service every day.’

‘It’s your turn after this.’

‘Unlikely to happen. Thank you,’ he adds, as Sherlock pours, then hands him a plate with a knife on it. ‘Have you got any raspberry jam?’

‘No. Strawberry or nothing.’

‘Put it on Mycroft’s list, would you?’

‘Of course.’

They eye each other over the rim of their cups. Moriarty’s hair is annoying. It’s not supposed to stick up like that. The way his lip curls suggests he might be reading thoughts again, and Sherlock looks away to set his tea down.

‘Do you want to get dressed before we talk? Use the shower?’

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘I’m being polite. Trying to make you comfortable.’

‘Yes, I see that. But that doesn’t make any difference either. The clothes I wear are not the key to breaking me, Sherlock. Maybe-‘ he smiles, and drinks, ‘-the way you want to touch my hair is.’

Sherlock straightens his cup on its saucer. ‘I do not.’

‘Do too.’

He rolls his eyes. Moriarty snickers gently, and holds his hand out. ‘My phone, please. I need to send for a delivery. You can read it before it goes.’

‘I thought clothes didn’t matter.’ He takes the phone from his pocket anyway, and hands it over. It’s Moriarty’s turn to roll his eyes.

‘You like it when I look good. It makes me less of a person. Seeing me dressed like this makes you feel weird, and you said it yourself, I want your best game.’

He has already turned the screen around so Sherlock can see the text. It reads: _Clothes. Food. 221b_. Sherlock is looking for the recipient’s phone number though, and Moriarty looks depressed as he hits ‘send’.

‘Don’t be boring. I’ll give you his number if you want, but it won’t do you any good.’

And now Sherlock is watching Moriarty’s hand. His fingers are rubbing the edges of the device, and he can’t decide whether it’s because he’s itching to check his emails, or if he just likes that it’s warm from being in Sherlock’s pocket for the last three hours. He doesn’t know what he thinks about the chance of the latter being true, or that he came to think of it at all. He’s annoyed that he can’t decide, and the way this man is so bloody impenetrable.

Moriarty holds the phone out. Sherlock takes it and puts it back in his pocket. He watches for a reaction, but the slide of it against his leg doesn’t garner so much as a glance. Emails it was, then. Unless that’s what he’s supposed to think.

…and his heart sinks again, just as it did the day before when Moriarty called him on his use of ‘we’. If he can’t make up his mind on the smallest detail about this man, things don’t bode well for the rest of the week. He’s undermining his own self-confidence, and Moriarty’s just sitting there contemplating breakfast.

‘I have to say, Sherlock, your methods of interrogation are very odd.’

‘You didn’t really expect thumbscrews, did you?’

‘Of course not. But maybe this toast is supposed to be torture enough?’

Sherlock looks at the toast, which is not burnt so he has no idea what the problem is. Moriarty just chuckles, and stands up. ‘I’m going for a shower. Try not to stand outside the door to hear if I’m wanking, okay? It’ll put me off.’

He opens his mouth to reply, but there’s nothing he can say to that. So he closes it and looks bored, waving him off. Moriarty laughs properly this time – or as close as he ever gets, which is a sarcastic and mirthless thing – and walks away.

‘And get your eyes off my ass.’

Sherlock turns his head. He wasn’t looking. He _wasn’t_.

 

*

 

_Day Two – Morning._

 

 _Pick up your blasted phone_.

Sherlock sighs, waits three seconds for it to ring, and picks it up. ‘ _What_ , Mycroft?’

‘You do realise that since there are no bugs or cameras in the flat-‘

‘Since we found the ones you left in.’

‘-I can’t actually _tell_ whether he’s murdered you in the night, or if you’re tied up while he’s escaping, or trying to bring the government down using your laptop.’

‘If he wanted to bring the government down, I expect he could do it from his phone.’

‘Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m _so_ glad to hear you’re not dead.’

Sherlock smirks, and glances up towards the bathroom as Moriarty comes out of it. Same T-shirt, same grey trousers. But he’s towelling his hair dry, and the smell of warm water follows him out. He still looks tired and the fact he exists still fills the room, leaving not quite enough space for air…but he’s also strangely rumpled and, again…human.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Mm? Oh. Yes, what do you want?’

‘Haven’t you been _listening?_ ’

‘No. Anyway, we just established I’m not dead. Could you send some raspberry jam?’

Moriarty smiles and drops into John’s chair, drawing his feet up off the floor and leaving the towel hanging around his neck. His hair stands up in fluffy peaks, and Sherlock tries not to look at the picture being created for him.

‘Raspberry jam,’ says Mycroft, in a tone dry as a ten-year-old bone in the desert.

‘Yes, raspberry jam. Also, clothes have been sent for, so your people outside can probably expect a delivery before too long.’

Moriarty murmurs, ‘a proper breakfast too, so don’t let him inspect it for too long. It’ll go cold.’

‘There’ll be food as well. Don’t ruin it.’

‘I wouldn’t _dream_ of it, Sherlock.’

Mycroft hangs up. Sherlock places his phone down on the arm of the chair, and looks his prisoner over. Moriarty looks back, and that’s how they stay for a good minute. Just looking.

Then hands are spread. ‘Come on then, Sherlock. Your time is running down. I’m not going to give you more because you wasted it all staring at me.’

Sherlock stands up. He straightens his shirt and the front of his robe. ‘Do you play chess?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Chess.’ He walks to the table holding his board, and pulls it between their two chairs. ‘I imagine you’ve at least heard of it.’

‘Sherlock-‘ Moriarty tilts his head at him and the board both, looking and sounding resigned. ‘You won’t beat me at chess.’

‘There’s no way of knowing that unless we play.’

‘Yes, there is. Anyway, you hate it.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes.’

‘-ah. Mycroft told you.’ He begins setting pieces back in their places. White for him. Black for Moriarty. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything my brother says.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m not stupid.’

Despite his protests Moriarty’s eyes are intent, following every move of Sherlock’s hands. The competitive edge gleams off him, and Sherlock makes sure not to look pleased.

‘If you’re so sure of winning, you won’t mind if I go first.’

‘By all means.’

He pushes a pawn forward. Moriarty counters at once. Sherlock thinks about the hours spent playing with Mycroft, the lessons on famous gambits and great masters, all of which he listened to when he was seven and pretended he’d forgotten years later. He moves a knight, and Moriarty barely waits for his hand to stop before he’s taken his turn. Sherlock pushes another pawn to the next square; Moriarty blocks with one of his own, again without a second’s hesitation. He glances up, and sees the man isn’t even watching the board; his eyes are wide and focused, and trained on Sherlock alone.

He moves his freed bishop. Moriarty takes it without looking. Sherlock takes the pawn left exposed, and Moriarty moves his knight. Sherlock can feel a pre-arranged noose dropping around his neck, and when he looks back at the board, his options to continue without leaving a glaring error are remarkably few. He, with reluctance, moves his knight and finds himself in check a second later. He blocks it, and loses his other bishop. He moves his king, and-

‘Oops-y.’ Moriarty sing-songs it gently, and drops his queen onto the fatal square. ‘Check _mate_ , my dear.’

Sherlock stays very still for a second, eyes flicking over the board. Then he knocks his king over, and sits back.

‘Impressive.’

‘Would you expect anything less?’

‘Of course not.’ But his pride is a little stung, and the look on Moriarty’s face says he’s not hiding it very well. He straightens, and starts putting the pieces back. ‘Again?’

‘There’s no point.’

‘You can tell me how you got so good while we play. I expect you’d enjoy that.’

‘Have you missed the part where I’m a genius?’

‘So am I. So is my brother, and I doubt either one of us could do what you just did. Not since I was seven and he was fourteen, anyway. He never had any trouble teaching me by making me understand how much more he knew than I did.’

Moriarty’s fingers linger over the top of a bishop, stroking at the small bead at the top of the sphere that makes its head. ‘So you learned the theory and strategy to match him? He might have been feeding his ego by beating you, but it sounds like it still prompted you to learn.’

‘Yes, but no matter what he said, that was always his secondary aim. The first was to be sure I knew my place.’

‘Awwww, poor _Sher_ lock.’

Sherlock doesn’t look up. His brain is firing in all sorts of interesting ways, because it’s as he suspected. There’s far more vitriol in those last three words than he has ever heard from Moriarty. He seems to have heard it too, because he tries to pretend it didn’t happen a few seconds later.

‘Come on, then. Let’s see if you can do better.’

Airy, light, as if he doesn’t care. But he’s handed over a big clue there, and Sherlock has his first path leading into the darkness.

 

*

 

‘There’s no point going again. This is embarrassing. For you.’

‘We’re waiting for your delivery. We might as well fill the time.’

The third game ends as the first and second did. Whatever move Sherlock makes, Moriarty has a counter ready. It’s not just interesting as a way into the man, it’s interesting for itself. Genuinely impressive. Sherlock would like to play again for a few reasons, but the doorbell rings so he gets up to answer it. When he returns he holds a suitcase and a suit carrier, and jerks his head towards the stairs.

‘Go and get your order. I wasn’t expecting the entire food court from Harrod’s.’

‘A slight exaggeration, I should think.’

Moriarty heads downstairs. A minute later he’s back, empty handed. One of the men pretending to be working on the road outside comes up after him, carrying a box in each arm. Sherlock rolls his eyes as they’re deposited in the kitchen.

‘Are you the laziest man in existence?’

‘Lazy is the last thing I am, Sherlock. But you said it yourself – I’m a prisoner. All these guards have got to be here for something.’

Moriarty grins, and walks into the kitchen. It almost looks like a real smile, and Sherlock is caught by the brilliance of it before he remembers it’s just for show.

‘Tell me they used gloves when they pawed through it.’

‘Couldn’t say,’ says the man and disappears, presumably to fetch the other boxes. Moriarty makes an impatient noise, and opens up a polystyrene container of scrambled egg on a toasted English muffin, with bacon and sausage.

‘Want one?’ he says to Sherlock, and licks ketchup off his finger as he sticks it in the microwave. Sherlock is about to say no, but it does smell good. He is hungry. And any show of solidarity is a good one.

‘Yes, alright,’ he says, interjecting a note of caution. ‘Thank you.’

Moriarty shrugs. The microwave pings. He retrieves his food in one hand, and digs a fork out of the cutlery drawer with the other. ‘Help yourself.’

Sherlock moves to the box, and picks up a take-away carton. And then, once again, cold steals through his blood. There are cartons of food underneath the breakfast. They look homemade, and are neatly portioned and labelled. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner…for two people. For a week.

He had been so _sure_ this wasn’t pre-arranged. It wasn’t on the list of possibilities he and Mycroft had drawn up, so-

Moriarty is chuckling. He’s taken possession of Sherlock’s chair again, crouched on the seat with his breakfast balanced on his knees, eyes dancing with mischief.

‘What?’ he says, and spears a cluster of delicious-smelling egg. ‘Just because you didn’t think of it, you assume I wouldn’t?’

Sherlock looks back into the bag. He swallows the nerves gathering into a lump in his chest, along with the urge to grab his phone and text Mycroft. _I think you might have been right. Where are the cameras even we couldn’t find?_

But he doesn’t do that. He puts his hand into the bag, and picks out his pre-arranged breakfast. Prepares to eat what Moriarty has planned for him to eat. When he flips the lid open, he smiles. A bacon and sausage roll, thick with butter and ketchup. A favourite of his teenage years.

‘You know me so well…’ he sings under his breath, and tries to pretend the hammering of his heart is adrenaline, and not fear.

 

*

 

‘I’m bored.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I really am. Give me my phone. If you’re going to take an hour to make a move, I should at least get to play Candy Crush.’

‘It’s been three minutes.’

‘And you’re not still not going to win, and I know exactly what move you’re going to make, and this is _boring_. Or is that your plan? Make me realise you’re tedious, and let your little pals go because none of you are worth bothering about?’

Sherlock lifts his hand as if to move a piece, though he has no intention of doing so. Moriarty’s tone is not just impatient, it touches on angry. He’s been quiet since breakfast; it’s mid-morning now and he’s been fraying for a couple of hours. He hasn’t been pushed, or asked questions. All they’ve done is play chess, at a deliberately slower pace than the first few games.

‘No, that’s not my plan.’

‘Do you even have one? And make your move before I die of old age, would you?’

‘Mm.’

He drops his hand without touching anything. Moriarty’s agitation palpably increases, and Sherlock’s eyes flick up to take him in. He’s tidied his hair up, but still has not changed his clothes. It feels like an odd choice; like he should have decided to put his veneer back on by now. Letting himself be seen as a human being can only be by design, but it doesn’t appear to serve any purpose. He’s supposed to be resisting Sherlock’s attempts to break him, isn’t he?

‘What would you do in my position?’

Moriarty, who had been glaring at the mantelpiece, turns his head to look at him. ‘You don’t expect me to hand you the winning moves. But if you’re referencing the wider issue, you can’t really be expecting me to answer that either.’

Sherlock shrugs, and sits back. ‘Why not? It won’t change the reality of what’s happening. It’s purely hypothetical.’

‘Nothing’s hypothetical if you’ve got the means to make it happen.’ Moriarty picks up a pawn and worries it between his fingers, squeezing the bulbous top and spinning it back and forth. ‘And you know what I’ll say anyway.’

‘You’ve mentioned it before. Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind, and vice versa. But that’s the logical response we’d make to any question. Actually talking – that’s the reason people play sports games instead of calculating the results based on form and logic. Unexpected things happen.’ He leans forward in his chair, fixed on Moriarty’s eyes. ‘Or is that what you’re trying to avoid?’

Moriarty snorts. It’s an indelicate sound, and an unbidden response. Genuine.

‘If you think that’s true, you really don’t know me at all.’

‘Well-‘ Sherlock sits back, and steeples his fingers, ‘-I don’t. The details, anyway. Broadly, I know you well enough to be able to predict your movements and thought patterns. But this comes down to the details, doesn’t it? That’s why we’re here.’

Moriarty doesn’t look impatient any more. He’s stopped fidgeting, and the note of anger disappears from his voice.

‘So tell me what they are.’

Sherlock smiles, just a little. ‘I don’t know them yet. But you want me to work them out. That’s why you planned for the possibility of this week – because if I came close to suggesting it, you knew you’d agree.’ He tilts his head to the side, watching the light in Moriarty’s eyes go flat. ‘You want me to see you. You have for years.’

‘That’s not news. And you never did see me, Sherlock. I had to introduce myself.’

‘True. And maybe I should have. But I didn’t and you still wanted to meet me, and now here we are. So, _James_ -‘ he spreads his hands; open, expansive. ‘-humour me. If our roles were reversed, what would you do?’

Moriarty watches him. It’s rather like being X-rayed. Those eyes…they could be kind, if the mind behind them weren’t so obviously deranged. And he’s not sure he’d prefer them kind. The insanity is too…interesting.

‘For a start, I’d move your king. You’re two steps away from being dead.’

Sherlock glances down at the board. He had seen that coming. He had tried to stop it happening.

‘And after that?’

Moriarty grins. He spreads his hands too, and shrugs. ‘Aren’t we just seeing what happens?’

‘No. You never do that.’

‘Maybe you’ve inspired something new in me.’

‘Doubtful.’

‘Theeeeeen…I’ll give you the obvious answer to begin with. That I’d never find myself in this situation.’

Very obvious. Moriarty has no friends to hold hostage, and don’t they both just know it.

‘But if by some sad state of affairs I _did_ , then – I’d get on with it.’

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. ‘On with it?’

‘Yes. Because you’re dancing around, looking for a way in, and we both already know what it’ll take. I grant that it might not work, but I expect it will. And so, the problem is not what needs to be done.’

Sherlock keeps his face impassive. Carefully so. And it must be obvious, because Moriarty’s smiling again.

‘It’s that you’re too afraid to do it.’

It sits between them, an unexploded bomb in the middle of the chess board. All Sherlock can think is that he should dispute it, he should say _no_. And they’d both know he’d be lying – about being scared, and about what it’ll take – but at least he would have made the effort.

In the end he says nothing. He doesn’t even move. And Moriarty looks disappointed, shaking his head and uncurling himself from the chair.

‘You need to get your head in the game, Sherlock. You’re boring me. I’m going back to sleep, and you can come get me when you’ve made your mind up.’

He doesn’t give him time to answer, even if he’d wanted to. He just gets up and leaves, heading into the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

_Day Three – 4am._

 

John’s bed is weird. The mattress is softer than he expected, and the sheets a bit crisp. That shouldn’t be weird; maybe it’s just because this is the first time he’s ever contemplated John’s bed, and what it’s like to lie in it. It’s not something that’s ever been important before.

He turns to his side, and watches the digital display. 04:02. 24 hour clock, of course; John was a military man. Everything in this room is so tidy. Sparse, minimal. He can see why it would drive Moriarty out of his mind – not because of the tidiness, he probably loves things neat. It’d drive Sherlock mad, but not _him_ , no, he’d hate it because it’s John’s room and John’s things, and John really kicked all this off, didn’t he? Not that he’ll know or want the credit. He’ll be asleep now. He would have stayed awake later than usual because he won’t have to work tomorrow. Mycroft will be keeping him locked inside, pressing on him the need to stay away from windows or venture outside. As if that would make the slightest bit of difference to Moriarty and his killers. Mycroft knows that too. It’s his way of being kind, giving John – all of them – a semblance of control over the situation. _Stay out of sight. Stay quiet, and the bogeyman won’t get you_. Except this bogeyman is invisible, and silent. He will kill anyone, anywhere he pleases. A good old-fashioned villain; the man in a black hat who’ll draw a gun, leave a body behind, and never, ever, show remorse. 

And he's awake. He’s not making a sound down there, but Sherlock can feel him moving. Logic tells him he slept in the afternoon and through the evening, so of course he’s awake now. But the knowledge doesn’t _feel_ logical. It feels like a puff of cold air on the back of his neck, making his hair stand up. It feels like the prickle of his skin. A thrum of electricity in the air. Moriarty is awake, and waiting.

Sherlock rises. He dresses in a suit, and leaves the robe off this time. They’ve had their first day, feeling out what it’s like to be in each other’s space. Now it’s time to work.

‘I thought you were going to sleep all night.’

Moriarty is back in the grey Reiss. Tie, fox pin, everything. His hair is slicked back, his cufflinks are in perfect symmetry. He sits with one ankle crossed over his knee, both casual and decidedly _not_ , owning Sherlock’s chair like it’s been his all along.

‘I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

‘Go do what you need to. I’ll be here.’

This could be a dream, really. But Sherlock doesn’t believe in kidding himself, or anyone else. This is real, and this is where they start to play for the highest stakes. He brushes his teeth on automatic pilot, watching his own face in the mirror. He doesn’t have to tell himself how to play this. There’s only one thing he can do, which is make no plan at all. Trying to stick to one tack will be fatal. Moriarty can only be reached – beaten – by thinking on his feet.

He sits in John’s chair. They lock eyes. The silence in the flat is absolute; so loud you can hear it. And that’s how they remain for the longest time, until Moriarty smiles.

‘It’s all on you, Sherlock.’

He knows. His fingers tap a rhythm on the arm of the chair, just once. ‘Tell me why you agreed to this.’

‘I told you I’m not making it that easy. And you already know.’

‘If you hadn’t wanted to lead me in a certain direction, you would never have hinted you _could_ call the killers off.’

Moriarty shrugs one shoulder, his face amused.

‘But I don’t think you were hinting at this. You wanted to create an excuse to kill yourself.’

No shrug this time, and the amusement looks a little dark around the edges.

‘So that was it? An elaborate scheme you intended to top with your own death.’

No shrug, no amusement.

‘In which case-‘ Sherlock leans forward slightly in his chair, ‘-tell me why you agreed to _this_.’

Nothing.

‘Because it would have been neat.’ He sits back. ‘You pushed me into a corner. You could have removed the get-out clause permanently. I suppose it would deprive you of the chance to watch what happens next, but you don’t really care, do you?’

Moriarty just looks at him.

‘You don’t care if I save my friends, or if I die. You never intended to be around to see the outcome. The whole thing was a ruse to end _your_ life. You essentially hired me to make sure you went out for a reason.’

Moriarty’s eyes flick gently around the room. His lip curls at the corner. ‘It was never just that. The problem had to be solved.’

‘Ah, yes. The mythical Final Problem. You still haven’t told me what it is, or why you’re so sure you owe me a fall.’

‘Have you even tried to work it out for yourself?’

He sounds a little bitter. Sherlock tilts his head to the side. Moriarty finds another smile and mirrors the movement, gently mocking. Sherlock chooses to ignore it.

‘Of course I have, and it’s the key to-‘ a vague gesture, indicating their current situation, ‘-all this. But whatever the answer is, you can’t think it matters that much either.’

‘Oh?’

‘You wouldn’t have been alive to see me work it out. And you will be this time, but what then? I hope you’re not intending to leave a nasty blood stain on my wall.’ He raises his eyebrows in a parody of horror. ‘Mrs Hudson hates it when the wallpaper gets damaged. I’ve already lost my security deposit.’

An expression of lazy amusement. ‘It was good shooting, though. Left-handed, even.’

‘Thank you.’

Sherlock steeples his fingers, holding them to his chin. Moriarty sits, entirely still, the epitome of calm. Then; ‘if I have to tell you what the problem is, you’re worthless to me. I might as well end your friends now. Then you, if you like.’

‘Then yourself?’

A hint of a shrug. The man looks alert and rested, which does nothing to dispel the air of detachment rolling off him, pushing everything further away. Not even detachment from Sherlock. From everything, and that can’t be allowed to continue.

‘Would it mean anything,’ he says, cautiously. ‘To tell you that I don’t want you to die?’

Eyelids flicker. Not quite a blink.

‘It would be easy for you to say _no_ , obviously. And once you’ve thought about it a bit and excised whatever emotion you just felt, maybe you’d even mean it. But right here and now - would it?’

Moriarty touches his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. It looks like an unconscious gesture, and Sherlock watches it until it disappears.

‘I suppose that depends why you want me alive.’

‘You know why.’

‘Naturally.’

He sounds a little disappointed. Sherlock doesn’t want to admit things out loud, but it is, after all, why they’re here. ‘Things would be a lot more boring if you were gone.’

‘Yes. But I don’t exist for your entertainment, darling. You exist for mine. And all that endless boredom in your future would be a wonderful parting gift for me. The happiest of thoughts to go out on.’

‘Wouldn’t it be more fun to be around to watch it? Except-‘ Sherlock clicks his tongue, ‘-a stupid thing to say. My apologies. If you hide yourself to watch my boredom, there’ll be zero chance of relieving your own.’

Moriarty nods once. ‘You’re a more fun plaything in person. Not something that can be said about anyone else, I’ll admit.’

Sherlock steeples his fingers again, watching him. Moriarty watches back, and Sherlock is sure it’s not just him experiencing a moment of… relaxation maybe, along with the tension. Not just him who can hear the air vibrating around them.

‘So that’s one reason. A last game, but up close and personal this time.’

‘If it’s my last match, I want to enjoy it.’

The moment dies. Sherlock looks down, and thinks about the gun with its one bullet. ‘It doesn’t have to be your last match. I can ensure it isn’t, you know?’

‘What, hand me over to Big Brother? A windowed cell with nothing sharp, no clothes to hang myself with, food tested for poison?’ He makes an impatient sound, disgusted. ‘As if that would stop me. And you wouldn’t do it anyway.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

‘No. It doesn’t take cruelty to kill someone like me. It takes kindness.’

Sherlock knows his pupils flare. He can feel the tiny spike of adrenaline, the quickening of his heart. And Moriarty looks away too fast, as though he realises that was a stupid thing to say.

‘…I admit it would be kinder to let you die. But I’m a selfish man, as you know. So we’re back to me preferring you to remain.’

‘We don’t always get what we want, Sherlock.’

‘Then I suppose it’s up to me to give you a reason to stay.’

Moriarty says nothing, and doesn’t look back at him. But there’s a miniscule _something_ about his face, and Sherlock rolls his eyes as he registers it, once more exasperated with himself.

‘Yes, fine, I know that’s what you’re looking for here. Either I provide you with a reason to stay and you release my friends, or everyone dies.’

‘Except you. You get to stay and live without me, or anyone close to you. I’ll leave you Mycroft. You’re welcome to his company for the rest of your life. I’m sure it’ll be a great comfort to you.’

They lock eyes. Moriarty is amused again, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the knowing edge. The dual-edged sword of being left his brother; his greatest ally, and the most annoying person in the world.

‘ _Thank_ you.’

‘You’re so very welcome, my dear.’

Sherlock holds the gaze. And then as if by unspoken agreement, they both look away, blink, exhale. The coordination of their movement is not lost on him, and he wonders whether Moriarty is doing it on purpose, though he knows he isn’t. The implication makes his throat tighten with nerves even as adrenaline thrills in his blood.

He breathes deep to calm himself. ‘So. It would seem quid pro quo is the most obvious way forward.’

Moriarty’s eyebrows raise. ‘Since when do you willingly go for the most obvious anything?’

‘Someone once told me wanting everything to be clever was my weakness. I listened.’

‘First time for everything, I suppose.’ Elegant fingers rise off the arms of the chair, a gesture of agreement before they drop, and relax. ‘We can try it, though I don’t know what you could tell me about yourself I don’t already know.’

Sherlock will not point out that words are not the only weapon at his disposal. His fingers rub at the rough material of John’s chair, then stop when Moriarty’s eyes flick towards the movement. The first thing he wants to ask is clear to him, but will going too soon kill the chance? He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Moriarty smirks.

‘You’re going to ask about my family. Obvious. You were so _excited_ when I reacted to your little chess story.’

‘And you decided right away you’d make it seem like you let your emotion slip on purpose. We both know the truth, so why dance around it?’

‘You love dancing. I love to watch you dance. It’s what we do.’

‘Not this week.’

Moriarty’s smile does not reach his eyes. But then, it rarely does. He waves a hand, seemingly bored.

‘Then ask.’

‘Do you have siblings? Had?’

‘Two.’

‘Are they alive?’

‘Ah ah ah, Sherlock. It’s my turn. Though-‘ Moriarty doesn’t move, but manages to give the impression of leaning forward. It’s a neat trick. Simply the focusing of his attention, Sherlock supposes, but quite formidable, ‘-you shouldn’t take this deflection as any kind of indication of the truth. I’d hope you know better-‘

‘-I do-‘

‘-but you haven’t covered yourself in glory with…anything, recently, so it bears stating.’

The atmosphere relaxes again, just a touch. Sherlock watches him, and those eyes, as cold and deep as the universe at night. Endless. ‘It’s your turn.’

Moriarty leans forward for real this time, and the spark of life is incongruous from a creature who wears stillness this well. ‘Tell me about Redbeard.’

Sherlock feels one eyelid flicker. There’s a scream – an echo of it – somewhere in the depths of his mind. He knows it’s his own. He had…not coped well, with losing his dog. Still, the shrug is nothing but casual. ‘He was my dog. He died, as dogs do.’

Moriarty sits back. His smile is oddly satisfied, strangely delighted. It’s actually a good look on him. Suitably mad.

‘And you were upset about it.’

‘Of course I was. If you know this, why are you asking?’

‘Mycroft doesn’t tell it right. You know what he’s like.’

Sherlock’s mouth tightens just for a second. ‘I do. And I know what you’re like, pleased to make me feel something unpleasant. You like pushing buttons. I think you’ve pushed every button you’ve ever been faced with in your life, including the ones damaging to yourself.’

Moriarty only looks more pleased, so he goes on, ‘you shouldn’t take that as an indication of the truth of my emotions. I’m not running my mouth as a reaction to your question. Simply stating facts.’

‘But that you _need_ to state them. You could have just said the dog died, and left it at that.’

‘Have you got any pets? Had any?’

Moriarty outright laughs this time. It almost – _almost –_ sounds natural. ‘No, none. But I’ve always wanted a giraffe. I’d call it Mycroft.’

Sherlock blinks. Then he laughs too, and it _is_ natural. ‘I have to admit, it’d be fitting.’

‘Imagine the look on his face if we’ve missed any of the bugs.’

‘God, he’ll look like he’s

\- sucked a lemon.’

\- sucked a lemon.’

Sherlock cuts off as Moriarty’s words fall into place with his own, syllable against syllable, fitted together, one. The eyes are on him again, and he doesn’t look away. There’s the hint of a spark in them, and it might be the first time Sherlock’s seen evidence of actual life from the man.

He breaks the gaze. Moriarty, he can tell, does not. There’s a pause that stretches, and then a low chuckle, barely loud enough to travel the four feet between them.

‘How’s your plan going, my dear?’

‘I don’t have a plan. It’d be stupid.’

‘Yes. And thank you for acknowledging that. But you do have an _idea_.’

‘I do.’

‘Mm.’

Eyes back on each other. Moriarty’s lips are almost permanently curved upwards, but it can’t really be called a smile. They move eventually, slowly, an acknowledgement of Sherlock’s gaze on them.

‘You’re asking yourself how to get to the next level. You have to push it, don’t you? If you get there, things won’t be easier-‘ he drags the word out, caressing it with his soft Irish drawl, ‘-but they’ll be interesting. They’ll be closer to you getting what you want.’

‘Closer to what you want too. Closer to not being bored. You could pull me up to the next level, and then we’d both be-‘

Moriarty is shaking his head, so Sherlock doesn’t bother to finish. The flare of…something – anticipation? – dies in him, and the moment is gone.

‘Yet again - I’m not making it that easy. Who knows? This might be the major obstacle. It might be all downhill if you breach it.’

Sherlock thinks it probably will be. Hopes for it. But that doesn’t help him get there in the first place, and now Moriarty is standing, bringing this to a close. Sherlock looks up, watches him straighten his jacket with one neat tug.

‘I’ll be back out for breakfast,’ he says, coolly. ‘You can have another go then. Have as many goes as you like, my dear…for a few more days.’

Sherlock doesn’t move as he walks away, through the kitchen and into the bedroom. His mind is ticking over furiously, but only in circles. Whatever the right point to push is, he hasn’t found it yet.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

_Day 3 – 7am_

 

It’s raining. It always makes the flat smell odd; water rising from London’s concrete streets, damping down the dust and fumes, the world turned grey. Sherlock loves it. _His_ London. Dank but vibrant, even with things most people find unpleasant. It suits him better than the sun.

He’s been playing his violin for an hour. Quiet, not because he thinks Moriarty is sleeping, but to keep himself calm. The air is too thick, still dark. It doesn’t suit anything loud. Eyes closed, he turns where he stands. He’s nearing the end of Chopin’s Prelude in E minor and there’s a whiff of expensive cologne, something dark and inviting, a smell not found in nature and all the more interesting for it. He allows the smile that wants to rise, a tiny curl at one corner of his lips. Finishes the piece. Opens his eyes. He’s expecting a bored remark, dead eyes, or maybe something smug and knowing, maybe anything but what he gets, which is James Moriarty sitting and listening, with an expression almost as near despair as the one he wore on the rooftop.

He lowers the violin. Brown eyes close, and stay closed. Sherlock turns the bow in his fingers, tips touching along the wood. Now he’s stopped playing, the rain is too loud.

‘You once told me,’ he says, because why shouldn’t he speak what’s been on his mind; why shouldn’t he, when it’s what they’re here for and he has a feeling it might be answered, ‘that Carl laughed at you.’

No response.

‘What did he laugh at you for?’

No response, except there is, sort of. The stillness, the silence, the complete lack of life becomes sharper. Moriarty’s mind, focusing. Just a fraction of it. God knows what would happen if there was anything that required its full capacity.

‘I had a theory about asteroids.’

‘Asteroids.’

‘Mm.’

Sherlock re-evaluates a few things. The Van Buren Supernova makes a little more sense.

‘And it differed from his theory about asteroids?’

A shared smile then, but Moriarty still does not open his eyes. ‘You’re right, in a manner of speaking. It differed from his notion that everyone should be on his level. Which was entirely average in every way, except for his capacity to swim. He was fine with people being below him in that regard. God knows it was the only thing that elevated him.’

‘He laughed at you because you were clever, and mockery is the only weapon for those who prefer not to face their own inadequacies. Coupled with a child’s desire to rule the roost due to sporting achievement – he could hardly help but try and bring you down.’

‘It’s not a new tale. You know it yourself. Even ordinary people suffer it.’

‘So why kill him?’

‘You know why.’

‘Yes, I think I do.’ Sherlock exhales silently, and looks at his hands. He can feel Moriarty’s smile.

‘Go on, then.’

‘You killed him because you wanted to.’ It’s a throwaway truth, just like Carl was thrown away. ‘Because you hated him. Because you wanted to know for sure that you _could_ , and not get caught. Because it would make him see – even though he’d never know – that he might be able to laugh, but you would make him pay for it.’

‘Yes, to all.’ Beat. ‘And because he thought it was funny to call me queer. But mainly because I wanted to.’

‘It says something about you though, doesn’t it?’

‘I would think-‘ he opens his eyes finally, and turns them on Sherlock, ‘it says a great many things about me.’

‘But even at that age. Children…boast, they like to win, they like to _prove_ they’re good at things. They want recognition. At age….what, twelve? Thirteen? You didn’t need any of that. It was enough for you that _you_ knew you won.’

Silence, but for the rain.

‘I knew you did too. Not _you_ , your name. I knew someone won.’

‘I’m aware.’

‘Did it spoil it for you?’

There’s a long pause but Sherlock just waits.

‘In a way. In another way, no.’

‘Because it showed you you weren’t al…that there was someone else who could think like you.’

He regrets the half-finished word. It makes Moriarty look away, breaks his attention. ‘I think it’s pretty clear you don’t think like me, Sherlock.’

‘But I could have done. You just said it – I suffered it too.’

‘You didn’t kill anyone. You could have. You will, I think. But now you’ve got-‘ Moriarty stops, his tone turning dark and bitter. Sherlock lets the knowledge roll over him, refusing to stop and analyse it now. It can wait.

‘I’m on the side of the angels. That’s what you think. It doesn’t mean I am one of them.’

‘You’ve yet to prove that, my dear.’ His tone is back to normal. Gently mocking, a hint of condescension. His smile is bright, his eyes are dead. Sherlock wants to…he’s not sure. Something. ‘Is there breakfast?’

The moment’s gone. This is all he’s going to get, isn’t it? Moments. He gestures towards the kitchen. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Awww, are you bored of cooking for me? This hotel’s really going downhill.’

‘I’m sure your delivery man has provided something.’

Moriarty smirks and goes for the fridge, flicking the kettle on as he passes. ‘Do you want anything?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Suit yourself.’

 

*

 

_11am_

 

The mid-morning silence is broken by the front door crashing open. Sherlock is on is feet by the time boots hit the stairs, thundering upwards along with shouts of, ‘ _back, get back!’_  and his phone is ringing in his pocket at the same time as buzzing with text after text, and an armed police unit bursts into the lounge but Sherlock is already striding through the kitchen on the way to his bedroom. Mycroft’s voice is on the stairs, through the wall to his left, and he’s calling, ‘Sherlock, do _not,_ ’ but Sherlock rarely listens to his big brother and is already pushing the door open.

Moriarty is standing by the opposite wall, dressed in exquisite slacks and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, looking like an executive on his day off, possibly about to go and enjoy a round of golf. He glances up at Sherlock, stopped mid-sentence, his attention pulled from the man lying on the bed between them. He’s tall, the intruder. Dressed all in black. His boots are leaving rain water and dirt on Sherlock’s quilt, which is annoying, but not as annoying as the police officers with machine guns who shove him in the back, nearly faceplant him into the wardrobe as they rush past to grab the man. A couple of them round the bed in a clear attempt to take Moriarty too, but Sherlock bellows ‘ _NO!’_ and they stop, surprised into obedience or maybe Mycroft told them not to touch him, or whatever reason, it doesn’t matter. There’s a lot of shouting, and the visitor is dragged away. Sherlock watches his legs get kicked out from under him so he’s kneeling in the kitchen, and then a syringe is stabbed into his neck and that’s it, he hits the floor and the police go quiet.

Moriarty, who hasn’t moved, raises an eyebrow. ‘We weren’t _doing_ anything.’

He sounds exactly – _exactly_ – like a petulant teenager. Sherlock laughs. Moriarty looks a little surprised, and then he laughs too, and once again it almost sounds normal.

Mycroft, in the doorway, does not laugh. ‘If you two have _quite_ finished,’ he says, and Moriarty’s eyes go wide like they did in the courtroom. The throwback is not lost on Sherlock, who can’t help but respond the way he did at the time, and then there’s a moment where they just grin at each other.

Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s eyes on him. For once, he doesn’t blame him. But he ignores it, and says to Moriarty, ‘I assume he wasn’t here to kill me?’

‘If he were, you’d be dead. No, I was just bored. This is very _boring_.’

‘Is it? Or is it something else?’

He watches how Moriarty fails to look confused, or unsure. Suspicions confirmed, he sighs and turns to his brother. ‘You shouldn’t have come in. I told you, he’s not going to attack me.’

‘I might. Stupid of you to bank on the one time I mentioned not liking getting my hands dirty. I could have been lying.’

‘But you weren’t. Shut up a minute.’

There’s another snort of laughter. Sherlock ignores that too, not taking his gaze off Mycroft, who has not stopped watching him for a second.

‘This has gone too far. I warned you, Sherlock. And now he’s bringing in-‘

‘He didn’t _bring in_ anyone. Someone evaded your security. That’s your fault, isn’t it?’

Mycroft looks pale enough to simply vanish into the air. A ghost in a good suit. He hasn’t slept for days, and Sherlock does think about snapping _go to bed, you bloody idiot, I’m fine_ , but Mycroft won’t listen and so it would be a waste of air. He stays quiet. Mycroft swivels on his heel.

‘You,’ he says to Moriarty, who looks as though every Christmas since the dawn of time has come at once, ‘will not be warned again. Any more visitors, and no matter what my brother says, you will be detained at the pleasure of Her Majesty’s government, without parole, without ever seeing the light of day again. Do you understand me?’

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. Mycroft’s tone…is not as it should be. It’s lacking something. Moriarty just grins, as he would to a statement that inane, and shrugs his shoulders. ‘Have you got somewhere to put me, Mikey? It’d have to be somewhere _good_ , wouldn’t it? Somewhere my boys can’t come and get me, seeing as you can’t even keep them out of a flat you’re watching.’

Mycroft is practically transparent. He says nothing. Sherlock looks between one and the other.

‘Somewhere faaaaaaar far away, where people _just like me_ are taken to…’

‘One day,’ Mycroft says, ‘you will be made to stop talking.’

Moriarty blows him a kiss. Lips only, no hand. Eyes narrowing in an impression of pleasure. ‘Promises promises, darling.’

Mycroft jerks his head. A police officer enters and crosses the room, turns Moriarty and pushes him face-first into the wall. Sherlock hears his forehead bounce off the plaster, a dull _thunk_ followed by a laugh as his hands are zip-tied behind his back. ‘ _Harder_ , sweetheart,’ he says, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. Sherlock can’t help smiling, and then follows his brother at another gesture of his chin. The interloper is being carried down the stairs. They stand in the living room, and Sherlock listens to make sure there is no violence accompanying the restraints in the bedroom.

‘This has gone too far.’

He clicks his tongue. ‘It hasn’t gone anywhere yet, and it’s not going to if you keep doing things like this. He’s pushing your buttons, and you’re letting him.’

‘ _I’m_ letting him? Sherlock-‘

‘No, Mycroft. You don’t understand. He wouldn’t have done this if he weren’t trying to deflect. Leave us be. This is going to work.’

‘Or it’s part of his plan to make you think it’s going to work.’

‘The only way to know is to play it out. What other alternative is there?’

‘I can think of several. Where’s the gun you took off him?’

‘In a safe place. And, no. It is not an option.’

He watches Mycroft watching him. He knows what he’s going to say.

‘You’re so adamant it’s not an option. I think you’re right, this is working. On you.’

Sherlock tuts, impatient. And thinks, _of course it is._ ‘Enough time wasting. You can go and question our visitor, for all the good it’ll do. He’s just a prop.’

‘I’m not so sure. Moriarty has staff. Who are we to decide which of them are important, or not?’

‘Of course he has staff, but they’re all props. Everyone and everything in the world is a prop to him, don’t you see? None of it’s _real_. None of it _matters_.’

Mycroft surveys him. His eyes are tired, yes. And worried. Sherlock would tell him there’s no need, but he won’t listen to that either. ‘None of it? No one?’

Sherlock glances towards his bedroom door. It’s very quiet in there.

‘Go away, Mycroft. Leave us be.’

 

*

 

_3pm_

 

Moriarty hasn’t stopped smiling. He won’t speak, and Sherlock isn’t inclined to make him. They’ve been playing chess for two hours, on their seventh game now; he knows it doesn’t matter but he can’t stop himself trying harder each time, remembering everything Mycroft taught him and accessing what he learned to try and beat his brother back then. It makes no difference. The more complicated his play, the more Moriarty smiles when he dismantles it, moves a single piece with a gentle flourish, and murmurs, ‘checkmate.’

It happens again. Sherlock exhales and flops back in John’s chair. Then jerks forward and flicks his king over – a ceremonial gesture, but it has respect behind it and Moriarty seems to appreciate the effort. Then he sits back and finds his tea. It went cold an hour ago, but he drinks it anyway.

‘Tell me how you learned.’

He’s been putting off asking such an obvious question, especially as the man hadn’t shown any desire to answer it last time. But he wants to know for its own sake, not just as a possible tool.

Moriarty, rearranging the pieces, shrugs. ‘I taught myself, of course.’

‘Because there was no one to teach you, like Mycroft taught me.’ Moriarty’s hands don’t stop, and his face doesn’t change. Nevertheless, the air shifts. Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘You’re not angry at me asking obvious questions, you’re defensive because you don’t like this line of investigation. But what do you suppose we’re here for?’

‘I was hoping you’d have more finesse, I suppose. Make we want to tell you, rather than just asking.’

‘But you do want to tell me. I’m just supposed to – what, tease it out of you?’

‘I was thinking _seduce_ , but I don’t mind being teased out if that’s your preference.’

Sherlock opens his mouth. Closes it. He can _feel_ himself going red, damn it. And Moriarty smirks, because of course he bloody does. ‘You started it.’

‘I didn’t mean-‘

‘I know, and yet you said it anyway. Amazing what the subconscious can do, isn’t it?’

Ugh. Sherlock puts his cup down. ‘Do you believe in the subconscious mind?’

It earns him a hint of genuine surprise. ‘Of course I do. You don’t?’

‘Yes. But there are plenty who don’t – and I have reservations, because it’s not subconscious so much as us not having the knowledge of how the brain works properly. Some people can access it more easily than others, some are never aware of it at all.’

A shrug. ‘So?’

‘You’re not interested in how it works?’

‘I’m interested in a great many things, Sherlock. Many more than you who, let’s face it, has something of a one-track mind. If I were to apply myself to unravelling the mysteries of the human brain, I wouldn’t have much time for anything else. And what’s it going to tell us, really? It won’t change the fundamentals of a person. Not in our lifetime.’

‘And what do you suppose are the fundamentals of a person?’

Moriarty sighs, put-upon. ‘Why ask? You know them. They’re what you work with every day to solve your crimes. And you know I use them to have those crimes committed. We’re on the same page here. Could you move along?’

Sherlock picks at the cloth of John’s chair again. He probably should, but…well. But. Moriarty watches him for a moment, then huffs a gentle laugh. ‘Do you know what I think, Sherlock?’

‘Probably.’

‘I think you’re so curious about me you’re dying to ask, but you’re so scared of what it’ll reveal about yourself, you don’t dare.’ He spreads his hands, a king in each. ‘I’m not helping you, and time’s ticking on. I _will_ execute them at the end of a week, unless you persuade me not to. You can sit there and be scared, or you can take a shot and hope for the best.’

Sherlock stares into the unlit fire. There’s only one response he can give, which is, ‘as I said; probably.’ And then he stands and buttons his jacket, mutters ‘excuse me,’ and walks into the bathroom.

It’s no more quiet in here, but it’s so much easier to breathe. He locks the door and just stands, letting the tension ease. And it’s not just because sitting next to Moriarty brings constant pressure, and never allows a minute’s relaxation. It’s because it feels-

‘Sherlock.’

He exhales fast. He had not heard him approach, but he can hear him leaning on the wall by the door. ‘Do you mind?’

‘You’re only standing there. You can tell me to go away if you drop your trousers.’

Not much he can say to that. He hears Moriarty settle himself, cross his arms. He’s probably smirking, because when isn’t he? Not that it sounds like it when he speaks.

‘You know, for someone who’ll expose his bad habits to everyone and not give a damn what they think, you’re remarkably afraid to face yourself. Is it worse, doing it in front of me?’

Is it? It should be, shouldn’t it?

‘You know why you don’t care what they think? Because they’re stupid. They care about meaningless things, and they have no frame of reference for a mind like yours. It’ll only ever be an alien thing, so you know there’s no point bothering with them.’

Again, true, at least until John. He can’t refute it.

‘But you know I’ll understand. You _know_ that. You know I already do. So, what’re you so afraid of?’

That one’s easy to answer, at least. He braces himself, and opens the door. Moriarty is not smirking. He looks…gentle. It’s enough to mean the reply is curt, not yielding to such an obvious attempt to manipulate.

‘I’m afraid that you’ll take what you learn, and kill my friends with it.’

The soft expression melts to stone, then ice, then the type of fury that levels a city in one blast.

‘I’ll kill them if you _don’t_ talk to me. You know that too. And you keep asking me to talk, because,’ he air-quotes with a face full of disgust, ‘‘ _that’s what we’re here for’_ – what do you suppose _I’m_ here for, Sherlock? Do you think I’d go through this just to let you satisfy your curiousity about me?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Moriarty’s mouth snaps shut. There’s a brief flash of satisfaction, and Sherlock surveys him from his greater height to press home the advantage. ‘I think that’s exactly why you’d go through this, _Jim_. I think you’ve been living in the shadows all your life, and you can’t bear to die without someone to see you first. But it can’t be just anyone. It has to be someone worthy, doesn’t it? So you want me to prove myself, and then you can go.’

The rage has disappeared, but there’s nothing in its place. Nothing on show at all. It’s like someone pressed ‘pause’ on him; like he could stand there forever and his expression would not change out of neutral. So, this is his face when he’s recalibrating. But he’ll know that, and he’ll use it to make himself look unsure sometimes. Another weapon in his arsenal.

But he’s not using it now. Now, it’s genuine.

Probably.

‘The issue we have there, of course – is that I’ve already told you I don’t want you to be gone. So why should I prove anything, if that’s the inevitable endgame?’

‘Because-‘ Moriarty’s tone is dry, and dead. ‘-if you don’t, you lose them.’

Sherlock looks him in the eye, and doesn’t hide his exasperation. ‘Do you see why this is impossible? Of course you do - and you can’t be expecting me to choose you over them. Even if you weren’t threatening their lives, I barely know you. How could I ever - - but of course, you’re not expecting me to. This is just a footnote to the first game. Either way, you were planning to be dead at the end of it.’

Moriarty’s expression doesn’t change. Sherlock grits his teeth and looks away, calculating and analysing, but it all comes down to the same thing. This is a no-win situation. If he saves his friend’s lives by proving himself worthy, Moriarty will be gone. And of course that’s better than the alternative, but it’s still not something he wants.

‘Hateful, isn’t it?’ It’s a quiet murmur, injected with the bare minimum of humour. ‘Being a slave to what you _want_.’

‘I never am,’ he says, and gets the laugh such a comment deserves.

‘The fundamentals of a person, Sherlock. Stop kidding yourself.’

He exhales again. Moriarty has not moved. He leans, those smart-casual clothes making him look like something out of a catalogue. An image projected of a man, while the reality of him hides where no one can see it.

‘I trust you can amuse yourself for an hour? I need to think.’

Moriarty smirks, and raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I think I can manage. Have fun with your _thoughts_ , Sherlock. I always have fun with mine.’

Sherlock steps past him, heading for the stairs. ‘Oh, Jim,’ he says, calm as Arctic ice, ‘we both know that’s not quite true.’

It’s a relief to close John’s door behind him, and he doesn’t expect to be interrupted this time. One hour, that’s all he’ll give himself. Time is becoming critical, and while the parameters of this game might be changing, he is still determined not to lose.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Day 3 - 4:30pm_

 

 

_You’re so scared of what it’ll reveal about yourself, you don’t dare._

He paces, fingers steepled at his lips. Is he scared? Of losing John, and Lestrade, Mrs Hudson – yes. Of exposing himself? He was literally prepared to jump off a roof to save his friends, so he wants to say _no_. It’s even partly true; the newspapers have decided he’s a fraud, his reputation is in tatters, Moriarty no longer exists. He’s already exposed, and he doesn’t care.

But it’s not the same. This kind of exposure isn’t to do with other people’s perceptions of him. His perceptions of himself are a different matter. So, is he scared? Yes. A little.

‘They’ll _die_ ,’ he whispers, because they will. Moriarty is not joking. Could he live with knowing he could have saved them if he had just faced himself? Of course not. So, this doesn’t take any further thought. He can spend the rest of the hour working out _how_.

 

*

 

Moriarty is still in his chair. He’s reading a book, but he closes it as soon as Sherlock walks in, sets it aside, watching as he sits opposite.

For a moment they just look at each other. Moriarty’s eyes show nothing, reflect nothing, not even light. Sherlock breathes out to resist getting pulled in, and says, ‘I’m very lucky to have Mycroft as a brother.’

There’s a twitch of eyebrow.

‘We don’t get on for many reasons, not least because I’m a ridiculous stereotype of the privileged youngest child. I got away with murder because he was the sensible one shouldering the burden of being a role model. A role he took on because we were very close, once. He cares about me very much – and I hope we really did find all the bugs in here, because I would rather he didn’t hear me say it. I hope he never will, because if he does it means we’re in some kind of peril that requires him to hear it before it’s too late.’  

The eyebrows raise. ‘Do you not consider yourself to be in peril now?’

‘No. You’ve already told me you’ll leave me alive to suffer. And it would be suffering, because I would miss my friends terribly. The guilt would be…awful.’

Understatement. He watches the amused smirk grow, and notes that the eyes do not come to life.

‘I’m very lucky with my parents too. They love us very much. My mother could always keep up, we never had to dumb ourselves down. Even when we surpassed our father – which didn’t take long – it didn’t matter. He loves his sons, and doesn’t care that we’re more clever than he. And we love him, so we don’t rub his nose in it. He takes a backseat by necessity, Lord knows he’s used to it with my mother, but he’s a constant support for all of us.’

If anything, the eyes are more dead than ever. He takes a breath. ‘And John-‘

‘No.’

Sherlock closes his mouth. Moriarty sits, staring at nothing. Then he stretches his neck out, rolling his eyes in pleasure when the tendon pops. They settle back into stillness. Sherlock watches, putting his spiel about John aside for now. Family, then.

‘I was so attached to Redbeard because he was my only companion after Mycroft left for school. And when he died-‘

‘No.’

He closes his mouth again, confused this time. There’s a spark now, but if Redbeard gets that reaction, why doesn’t Moriarty want to hear about it? He lifts a finger on each hand and lets them drop back to the armrests, an acknowledgement of the word and an indication he’ll wait. But then;

‘More.’

He pulls up the next thing on the list. ‘I took up drugs as a teenager because-‘

‘No. Unless you’re going to be honest about it.’

‘I was about to be.’

‘Oh? Not more guff about how they help focus your mind, make you work quicker?’

‘…well, they do. But that’s not the only reason.’

Moriarty waves a hand, so Sherlock, cautiously, goes on. ‘I was very angry. Mycroft had changed into something so alien, I couldn’t stand it. I hated that he presented this image which appeared perfect to everyone else, when I knew what he was – well, had been. And school was boring, and the other boys were…mean.’

‘That’s not the real reason.’ Moriarty sounds bored, but his eyes are coming alive. ‘More.’

Sherlock opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. ‘There was no one to…talk to.’

He does not miss the faint look of satisfaction this earns him. He’d rather not press on, but has to.

‘And I didn’t want anyone to-‘

‘Liar.’

‘-yes, _alright_ , I mean I didn’t want any of _them_. They were too stupid. But if there’d been anyone else-‘

Moriarty smiles. But, Sherlock notes, the light is dying again. It feels different though. Sad. He has to keep it alive, and the words come without him having to think; soft, curious, almost plaintive.

‘Why didn’t you come and talk to me?’

Their eyes meet. The tone of his own voice catches him, and for a moment he’s stolen his own breath. Moriarty blinks, then looks down. Time passes, and then he shrugs.

‘You looked like you were having too much fun with your cocaine.’

‘Liar.’

‘Well of _course_ , darling, that’s what I do.’

‘Lying when I’m telling the truth-‘

‘-if you’re going to say _it’s not fair_ excuse me while I laugh in your face-‘

‘- _isn’t going_ to get either of us what we want.’

They look at each other. Then Moriarty sighs, and lifts one laconic shoulder. ‘You were no use to me when you were high.’

‘That’s not why.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s because you were too slow. You were still in school at fifteen, and I’d just left. I wasn’t rotting my brain on drugs, I was using it to move on. I was interviewing for universities, getting out of school early just to be done with it.’

‘I doubt that’s why either. Though, well done you. My privilege undid me again.’

Moriarty stares at him darkly. Sherlock’s turn to shrug. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? It’s why you hate me so much, or at least part of it. I’m privileged to have a genius mother and brother, and to grow up with people who could keep up with me. It allowed me the luxury of loafing around in school, getting high and wasting my parent’s money. You, on the other hand, had no one. I highly doubt either of your siblings are like you, like us, and probably not your parents either. You’ve always been alone.’

He leans forward just a touch. ‘Can’t bear to die without being seen, because no one ever has. But I _did_ see you when you killed Carl. So why didn’t you come and talk to me?’

Moriarty says nothing. Sherlock sits back, and steeples his fingers.

‘Afraid of rejection. When I was high, I didn’t care about anything but what was going on in my head. If you’d come when I was fully addicted, I wouldn’t have been able to see you. So you waited, and I took ages. I was homeless for a while, then rehab, then homeless etc cetera. Repeat a few times. Then-‘

‘You started working.’

‘Mm.’

They watch each other. Moriarty still looks dead. Sherlock could imagine him withering as he sits there, skin drying out and drawing in to his bones, hair turning white, nails growing long as his clothes crumple inwards to clutch a ribcage that would hold a heart beating on slowly; a black and withered thing, something that’s never touched love.

The eyes would not wither, though. Nothing can get rid of those eyes.

‘I was pulling myself together, and you were getting interested again. Waiting. And then – John.’

Moriarty’s mouth twists. But he doesn’t say _no_ this time, and Sherlock has to press. ‘He got there before you. As soon as you saw his blog start up, you must have thought it was too late. You missed the timing.’

‘That supposes I had plans to introduce myself in some other way. Killing you could happen with or without his little input.’

‘It wouldn’t have been about killing me. You want to kill me because of him, and what you’ve decided he’s made me. Haven’t you thought about what _I_ want to be? If I’ve become someone who can have friends, don’t you think-‘

He stops, not quite sure of what he means. Moriarty huffs, not exactly a laugh, but says nothing. And Sherlock thinks _of course_ and exhales slowly, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

It’d be a really bad idea to say _this is all about jealousy, isn’t it? Because I’m capable of making friends, and you’re not. Because a few people like me, but no one knows you exist._  

It’s not news. It’s been obvious for a while – but he never really considered how Moriarty would _feel_ about that, because he’s never considered what he would feel about anything, beyond anger. And madness. That’s what he’s done, isn’t it? Decided he’s mad, so anything he feels is less valid. Made him into a threat, and forgotten that he’s a person.

‘I’m not less of an opponent because I’ve got friends. Hating me for something so human-‘ he shakes his head, self-deprecating, ‘-alright, fine, a year or two ago I would have hated the idea of it myself. The mind is the only important thing, isn’t that right? You want a brain to play against, not just a _man_.’

‘Like you said, I missed my timing.’

‘But it’s rubbish. James. You-‘ Sherlock huffs his own laugh; at Moriarty for kidding himself by not recognising his own humanity; at himself for not pointing it out sooner. ‘Are you so afraid to face yourself?’

That earns a sigh, but it doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

‘It’s very human, isn’t it, wanting someone to play with? So, have you have faced yourself, and that’s why you brought a gun to the roof with only one bullet in it?’

Moriarty smiles. No words. Sherlock taps his fingers on the armrests. If nothing is going to be confirmed or denied, he could speculate in circles forever. And maybe it’s not one of these things. Maybe it’s just all of them.

‘What else can I tell you? What is it you want to hear?’

‘If I have to tell you what to say, Sherlock-‘

‘Yes yes, fine…’ He casts his mind, running through lists of things and discarding all of them for not being enough. ‘…earlier, when I walked into the bathroom. I noticed how much easier it was to breathe being away from you, and not having to be on my guard.’

An eyebrow jerk of, _oh?_

‘It’s not just about being on my guard, though. It’s awkward for other reasons. Because…I do-‘ the words falter and don’t quite make it on his first attempt. It is _embarrassing,_ saying all this. More so because Moriarty already knows pretty much all of it. He just wants to hear him say it. ‘…I enjoy this.’

Moriarty uncrosses his legs. Re-crosses them the other way, and it’s the most relaxed he’s looked for a while. ‘Was that so hard to admit?’

‘To you, who uses everything against me? Of course. The more important question is how that affects _you_?’

A snort. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Because you want me to enjoy you. We’re perfect for each other, remember? That couldn’t be true if-‘

‘-I was talking about our _game_ -‘

‘-we couldn’t be in the same room together. If we annoyed each other up close. And now we know we don’t – but this is a game too, because this is not how normal people interact, Jim. Which is fine. Neither of us want normal. But even I can’t be myself when I know you’re analysing every word, looking for whatever it is you’re looking for.’

‘I’d be doing that anyway. So would you.’

‘Yes, but-‘ the frustration is obvious in his voice, and he can’t make it go away, ‘it’s not the same.’

All that gets him is another smirk. Sherlock sighs. ‘Why don’t you let them go? Stay the week through choice.’

‘I’m already here by choice.’

‘My choice.’

Moriarty doesn’t even pretend to think about it. He just shakes his head. Sherlock has to control the urge to stand up, grab him and shake him until he gives in.

‘You can hit me if you want. It might even work, who knows? It didn’t for your brother, but you’re _special,_ aren’t you?’

Sherlock gets up. Moriarty doesn’t even look at him; he stares into the fireplace, his face as morose as his tone is amused.

‘What do you _want_ , Jim?’

No response. Sherlock bites back a noise of pure frustration, and walks out of the room.

 

*

 

He leans on the wall next to the front door, breathing deep. He only opens his eyes when he hears the click of a lighter, and raises his hand to meet it. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and brings the cigarette to his lips. Mycroft lights another. They both inhale slowly.

‘Do you still think it’s going to work?’

He hates these three words more than any other, in any language. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Has he given you anything?’

‘He reacts most when I talk about family. Read the most obvious conclusions into that. But he won’t rise to anything, he won’t be riled into reacting. He’s waiting for me to hit on something that will work, and then…I suppose he’ll let it work. But he might not. It might be dependent on a mood.’

‘In what way?’

‘Something that would break him this morning may not break him now. He came into this wanting me to find the key to him, but he might have decided he doesn’t want to give himself away after all.’

‘…Sherlock, I’ll remind you one more time. If you don’t find a way in, it’s you that’s going to lose everything. The world can get along quite well - thrive, even – without James Moriarty in it. There’s an armed unit one click of my fingers away.’

Mycroft just doesn’t seem to understand. ‘I’m not risking John and the others. You think you can protect them against his snipers, but you’re wrong. If he’d killed himself on that roof, the gunmen wouldn’t have just gone away. They’ll follow instructions to the letter whether he’s alive to give them or not.’

‘But that’s not the only reason you won’t let me. You could at least admit it to yourself if you don’t want me to hear it.’

He takes a drag of his cigarette. His mouth is drying, unused to being filled with smoke already. How long’s it been since his last one? Three months, at least.

‘I’ve admitted it to him. I don’t want him to die.’

‘Then be prepared to sacrifice your friends for him, I suppose.’

‘That was unnecessary.’

Sherlock straightens up, drops the remaining half of his fag and grinds it underfoot. His usual annoyance at Mycroft is stealing back in, and he doesn’t want a row with him just now. He wants to think.

‘Maybe so, but it’s true nonetheless.’ Mycroft smokes on, staring aimlessly at the sky. ‘It seems he was right. What was it? Something about fairy tales needing a villain? You need him to-‘

‘Mycroft.’

‘-fill a role that lets you play the-‘

‘ _Mycroft._ ’

But it doesn’t matter if his brother stops, or talks on. _A good old-fashioned villain_. Fairy tales. _Stories_.

He takes the stairs two at a time. Moriarty has vacated the living room and retreated to the bedroom. That’s fine. It allows a little time to organise his thoughts once more.

 

*

 

_22:30_

 

It’s dark. It’s been dark for hours. And silent; even when Sherlock went to his bedroom door and murmured through it, ‘I’m heating up some of your man’s curry, do you want some?’ there hadn’t been a sound. He knows Moriarty isn’t sleeping. The air is too alive for that, the wrong kind of still. When he retreated to John’s room to give him some space, he heard the bathroom door close and then, five minutes later, open again. That’s the only indication of life since the earlier conversation.

He walks down the stairs in his pyjama trousers and T shirt. He uses the bathroom, scrubs his teeth. When he exits he turns left, not right. He taps on the door.

‘Can I come in?’

‘It’s your bedroom.’

And walking into it is a bit like walking into treacle. The air is so thick with…he’s not even sure…it’s almost difficult to move. Disappointment, perhaps. It doesn’t feel like expectation. Sherlock looks down at the figure in the bed, covered up to the chin with quilt and blanket, the hair obscenely dark again the stark white pillow. Moriarty doesn’t roll over to look at him. It doesn’t seem like he even opens his eyes.

There’s only one option that matters. Sherlock slides into bed behind him, making sure they don’t touch. He can’t swear that gets a reaction, but he’s willing to bet it does. An internal one, at least.

‘Really?’

The drawl is lazy, once again amused. Sherlock ignores the tone because he can’t stop to think about this or he’ll lose his nerve, back off to carry this out with a suitable distance between them. It might work, but not as effectively.

‘John’s bed is awful. As you said, this is my bedroom.’

The covers move. A shrug. ‘Suit yourself.’

They settle. Moriarty does, at least. Sherlock counts cracks in the ceiling, something he’s never done before because what’s the point? It’s very quiet, though. No traffic outside, and the nearest streetlamp is about ten feet away from the window; enough to cast an orange hue, but not close enough to be overpowering. It’s soothing, or would be if it weren’t entirely alien to have another person in his bed.

‘My mother was a mathematician.’

There’s a quiet exhalation in the dark. Annoyed? Relieved? Hard to say.

‘I’m aware.’

‘Yes. I thought you might be. What you said about having a theory on asteroids…you have an interest in space, then. Or you did. It stands to reason you’d know physics, no doubt grounded in maths.’

‘And of course, she’s _your_ mother.’

‘Yes. So of course you’d know – but you’d only have read her work if you were interested in more than what her job used to be. Have you?’

‘I have. I particularly enjoyed _The Dynamics of Combustion_. She was very good.’

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow. Up close, Moriarty’s hair is a soft black blob, indistinguishable from shadows. His voice is calm and easy, but not at all sleepy. He can’t have been expecting to have company tonight, can he? Not seriously.

‘Would you like to meet her?’

‘…what?’

There’s a flare of satisfaction that he’s careful to keep from his tone. ‘Would you like to meet her? She cooks an excellent roast for herself and my father every Sunday. She’s long since given up asking Mycroft and I to join them, but she always cooks extra. We could go.’

‘It’s not Sunday.’

‘It will be in a few days. She’d love to have someone to talk maths with. She keeps up via journals of course, but that’s not the same as engaging face to face, or so she’s always told me.’

Sherlock waits through a long, long moment of silence. Then a rustle of sheets as Moriarty turns onto his back.

‘Why?’

‘Why not? You’d enjoy yourself, I think. She’s very charming. You’d get an insight into me and my life – don’t pretend you don’t want that – and she’d enjoy your company. Mycroft can’t know in advance, of course. I’ll tape his reaction afterwards, if you like.’

He can _feel_ the amusement at that, and smiles up at the ceiling, very much enjoying the shared knowledge of what that conversation will be like.

‘And what are they going to say when they see me? Their little boy, bringing home the man calling him a fraud all over the papers.’

Ah. That. His smile dims a little. ‘Well…there’s a chance she hasn’t read about it. She never likes hearing my name in the press for disfavourable reasons, though I suppose my father will have shown her. I’ll tell them it’s part of a bigger plan. They won’t push.’

For the first time, there’s a dash of genuine curiousity in Moriarty’s tone. ‘They won’t?’

‘They trust me. When it comes to work, anyway; less so if it had anything to do with drugs. If I tell them it’s all in hand, and that you and I really are friends, they’ll go along with it. They treat me like an adult in the ways that matter, they don’t interfere in my life. They know I’ll…do the right thing.’

A murmur floats through the dark between them. ‘Side of the angels.’

‘Yes. But by choice. I _choose_ to do the right thing, just as you choose the wrong one. We both do it for the same reasons.’

It’s quiet again. The air feels more relaxed. It’s strangely easy to speak when they’re not face to face, staring each other down. The informality of the setting, perhaps. The olive branch extended.

‘And they won’t ask a lot of questions about your public ruin, and my hand in it?’

‘No.’ Because they’ve already been told to expect reports of his suicide. They’ll be nothing but relieved. ‘Partly because if any of it were true, why would I be bringing you to lunch? But mostly because they’ll know it’s not. They _know_ I’m not a fake. And they care as much about public opinion on these things as I do.’

Another stretch of quiet. It feels like Moriarty’s thinking. For once, not angry during a conversation about family.

‘Aren’t you lucky?’ And it’s not even mocking. ‘Parents clever enough to know the value of outside influence.’

‘I am, Jim. Very lucky. And I’m sorry that you weren’t.’

The silence is loaded at once. Sherlock curses inside, _shutupshutupshutup_ , but he can’t unsay it. He’s surprised it doesn’t earn him an instant scathing remark; not surprised to feel the mattress and quilt shift as Moriarty rolls to his side, facing away.

‘Look at you,’ he hears. Another quiet murmur that barely makes it over the rustling cotton. ‘Getting somewhere.’

Yeah, he thinks. Look at that. He allows half a smile, and a lot of relief, as he also rolls to face away.

‘Good night, Jim.’

No reply to that one, but that’s okay. Maybe tomorrow night.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

_Day 4 - 08:30_

 

It’s not fully light. Grey out there. Raining again. No traffic, no birds. Jim Moriarty nine inches away, breath warm and sleep-sweet, eyes as dark as night. It’s very warm under the duvet. It covers them both to the chin, but Sherlock is _sure_ there are fingertips just millimetres from his own. He can feel vibrations along the cotton, a tiny brush, a consciousness reaching out to his and merging at the edges. Not forcing its way in. Just… _there_. Just being allowed. Maybe he should bridge the physical gap himself, and what might that be like? A fingertip touching in the dark, a spider web’s kiss where no one can see. He should. He wants to know what’ll happen. But it’s very quiet like this, easy and calm, swallowed up by that endless gaze. A ridiculous gaze. No one should have eyes that are sharp enough to cut one day, and soft enough to rest in the next.

He has so many things to ask. They’ve passed the halfway mark, and he knows little more than when he started. There are so many details missing. The names of the two siblings, what his parents did for a living. What his house looks like, if he has one; what he does when he’s alone, favourite books, greatest influences – other than himself – everything, he wants to know _everything_ , because Jim Moriarty might be insane, but he’s never less than fascinating. Even this, just lying here. The slow way he blinks, the sense of utter relaxation as he lets himself be looked at. It’s rare to find anyone so utterly at home in their own skin, while being so desperately unsettled in the rest of the world. _With_ the rest of the world, he should say. He has no doubt Moriarty is fully and comfortably seated in his position as king of the underworld, but that doesn’t mean he’s enjoying himself. He’s not happy. It’s a special kind of mad that lets someone hate the world, and everyone in it, as completely as this. But he lies here so easily, fitting into this unknown space as if he owns it. As if he’s been here all along.

‘Why fairy tales?’

His own voice is deeper than usual, cracked with disuse because they’ve been awake like this for an hour, saying nothing, just looking. They both turned in the night. Got closer, and the internal safety radar that keeps people from danger, keeps parents from squashing babies in their sleep, makes a body move when it twists into discomfort…failed to go off for either one of them. They both slept. They both woke. They haven’t made an excuse to get up, haven’t moved away. Sherlock hears himself yesterday, _I like this_ , and has to conclude the same applies here.

‘Deduce it.’

‘Stories are better than reality. More fun, more free, less boring?’

A twitch of his head on the pillow. Jim’s hair is stuck up in peaks and tufts, flattened on one side. He looks younger, but not softer. Not _much_ softer.

‘There must be something in the world that interests you.’

Another twitch, and half a smile. Sherlock adds, ‘apart from me,’ and then analyses the warmth that springs up from the compliment. If it is one. It’s possible other people would find it less gratifying to be the only object of a madman’s attention.

‘You can ask me questions, if you like. Things Mycroft didn’t tell you. As you saw yesterday, I’m willing to talk if it’s what you want.’

‘Have you ever had sex, Sherlock?’

Obvious that would arise. He’s been waiting for it since day one.

‘No. Not penetrative, at least.’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Do _you?_ ’

‘Usually. Why, are you offering?’

Sherlock waits, not because he’s afraid to answer, but because he already wishes they hadn’t started talking. It was nicer to just lie here, and look.

‘I suppose so.’

Consent given, is he expecting Moriarty to just lunge? Maybe. He finds he’s not surprised when he doesn’t, and gives no sign he’s planning to. The man flirts with everything and everyone, mostly just to keep them off-balance. It would be more predictable if he _did_ go for it. Sherlock watches him blink, a long few beats where his eyelashes touch his face and stay there, closed, and he wonders if he’s thinking about it. Finds himself thinking about it; the possibility of Jim moving now, sliding a leg over his, opening him, his body following to lie between his thighs. The weight of him, and then…and then. He can’t speculate on how it would feel. He has no experience.

But he will acknowledge there’s a certain tension gathering. His penis is not curled comfortably on his leg the way it was a few minutes before. Jim opens his eyes, and that doesn’t make him any less aware of it.

‘You’d really do it for them, wouldn’t you? You’re determined to give me anything I want. At least then if I kill them, you’ll be able to tell yourself you gave it your best shot.’

 _Careful_ , he thinks. _Very, very careful._

‘If I did it…if you wanted to – that’s not why I’d be offering.’

‘Oh?’

‘Because I think you’d feel like I’d only be offering under duress. You don’t believe anything in the world matters, but I doubt you’d derive any satisfaction from thinking you’d forced me into it. So giving in under those circumstances wouldn’t do me any good.’

‘So?’

He shifts his shoulder to give the impression of nonchalance. ‘You want me to want you. If I offer myself, you want me to do it because it’s _you_.’

It’s calling him out, really. Telling him, _I know you’re a human being, who wants human things._ And Moriarty might not like that. He might react very badly. But he might not. He might be the man Sherlock glimpses occasionally now, who’s called Jim, and wants the attention of an equal for reasons that are not all about dominance, and superiority.

‘And do you?’

That’s the question, isn’t it? Sherlock appears to think about it more than he really has to. He looks Jim over, untidy and quiet lying there, but still filling the room with the strength of his personality. And says, ‘I think so. You understand it’s difficult for me to tell.’

‘It’s not that hard to work out, Sherlock.’

‘It’s…confusing. I’ve never-‘ he breaks off, and is only compelled to find the right words when Jim’s eyebrow raises in encouragement. ‘-I don’t know how I’d react to lying in bed with anyone. It might be a proximity thing. So I can’t tell if it’s _you_ , or-‘

Jim’s laughing. Chuckling. Amusement and glee. Sherlock shuts his mouth, and glares.

‘Sherlock _Holmes_ with a stiffy. Have I warranted a full stand, or are we stuck at half-mast?’

Being laughed at is never fun. He goes back to school and a particularly awkward memory, jeers flashing across his mind, the image of a dorm room, and-

‘Don’t look like that. If it makes you feel any better, I’m in the same boat. It’s just biology.’

Yes. Just biology. A man naturally has around three to five spontaneous erections every night while sleeping, it’s perfectly-

‘And the fact you want to fuck me.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Contemplates rolling away. He knows he’s blushing, he can feel the heat of it – but the teasing feels like just that, teasing, with remarkably little malice behind it.

‘If you’re in the same state, by your own logic that means you want to fuck _me_.’

‘I don’t think that’s news to anyone, sweetheart.’

Oh.

He blushes a bit more. Jim looks even less abashed; he’s grinning, shameless, and his hand is definitely moving now, brushing the back of his fingers and coming closer, closer, running along a fold of T shirt on his stomach.

‘Don’t freak out. Just an experiment. I’m going to touch you.’

‘Jim-‘

‘Don’t worry. Not there.’

He’s frozen. It flashes across his mind that if that hand did suddenly push down his pyjamas, he wouldn’t stop it anyway. Wouldn’t _want_ it, he thinks, but he’d let it because he has to convince Moriarty he wants this. He’s not completely sure he does, or doesn’t, or would choose it if he didn’t feel he has to. But it would be a lie to say he’s completely adverse to what’s going on.

And the fingertip touching his shirt has not moved any further. He blinks, and realises… ‘Oh. Yes. Alright.’

The cotton drags slowly up his stomach. His pulse quickens, and he makes an effort to keep his breathing steady so as not to give himself away.

‘Why have you never done this?’

‘I…I don’t – it gets in the way. It’s not-‘ fingertips are stroking his belly. It’s the softest touch, making his nerves fizz gently to life. He swallows, and wants to look away from Jim’s chocolate gaze, but doesn’t want to ruin the moment more. ‘-it’s not…’

‘What?’

Tips become a tiny scratch of nails. A little finger traces the waistband of his trousers, and Sherlock’s tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. ‘Important.’

‘Important. No.’

That one little finger pushes under the elastic. It whispers along skin that has only been touched by his own hands, and then only to get clean. No other fingers, no lips, not even sun has really graced that pale expanse, skin stretched tight over jutting hip bones and muscles that form a V, leading a path straight to his centre. Sherlock traps a sound in his throat as his toes curl against the quilt. An inch lower, and Jim won’t have to push down to touch more.

‘Fun, though. With certain people.’

He swallows again, and tries to collect himself. Impossible, with his balls pulling up tight to his body, swelling beyond control. ‘Nng,’ he says, and wishes he weren’t so red. Wishes he could tell him to stop smiling.

‘ _Ohhhhh_.’ Jim’s eyes widen. His fingertips stop stroking, and Sherlock hates his body for missing it; hates the way he wants to curl up towards more touch. ‘This is why.’

He breathes. Lets Jim look. The world is condensing to the hand on his belly; that finger half an inch from the trembling, leaking head of his cock.

‘You can’t _think_.’

The finger moves. The nail pulls along his skin, a millimetre above the first pubic hair, the tiniest, lightest scratch. Sherlock swallows back another noise, bites the side of his tongue to prevent an orgasm, grabs Jim’s wrist and pulls the hand away. It leaves without resistance and without laughter. Sherlock is wary even as he tries not to think of his heart pulsing between his legs, watching for mockery – but Jim’s face is, if anything, full of wonder. Wide-eyed and alight, drinking him in. He still lets him look, even though all he wants to do is roll away and hide. And touch himself, that too. Or let Jim finish the job.

‘It stops you thinking.’

‘Clouds my…clouds my judgement.’

‘Which means you had to have someone who taught you that. Who made you realise.’

He’s still holding Jim’s wrist. It feels thinner than it looks, strangely delicate in his long fingers. ‘Yes. I suppose. Doesn’t it stop you thinking?’

‘For a little bit. Which is why I indulge as often as I feel like.’

Sherlock breathes through the tension. When he lets him go, Jim just lets his arm drop where it is. His fingers are still very, very close. Not close enough to make it worse, but enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.

‘How do you do it?’

Eyebrows jerks upwards, and they _are_ mocking but Sherlock can’t bring himself to mind. ‘I imagine you know how biology works, even without women involved.’

‘No, I mean…you, being you. I suppose there was Kitty Riley as an example. Stupid question. You pretend to be someone else.’ He says it without thinking, and curses himself as a shadow passes over Jim’s face. This, he thinks, is exactly why sex is stupid. It makes _him_ stupid. ‘You don’t have to answer that.’

‘I don’t, now. That’s how I do it. It’s the easiest thing in the world. Go out, see what someone’s looking for, and become it. You could, if you had less ego.’

‘I don’t have ego.’

‘He said, egotistically. But no, you’re right. Not about things that matter. But in little ways, you do. You don’t like pretending to be other people for long stretches of time, because you _like_ being Sherlock Holmes. You just want other people to like Sherlock Holmes too.’

Jim’s face is calm as he says it. And he’s right, of course; when isn’t he? The egotistical part wants to bite at him, tell him it’s better to want people to like him in general than be desperate for the attention of one singular person. But he won’t, because he’s not stupid. And his ego quite likes being the one singular person a man like James Moriarty is interested in.

He sighs and, finally, rolls to his back. It breaks the spell as he knew it would. He can breathe again, tension immediately seeping back into his muscles and bones, settling back to lie in wait. He refuses to think about tonight. Or the rest of the day. It’s not like they have company in this flat. Moriarty stretches, arching interestingly under the covers. Then he flings them back and gets up, not an ounce of shame in him as he allows the tented front of his pyjamas to be seen. ‘I’m using the shower. No, you can’t come with me.’

Sherlock snorts, and feels the blush rise back up. Jim looks quite delighted the pun wasn’t missed, and pulls his white T shirt over his head. Bare-chested, he’s strangely impressive. Not that the physical body means anything beyond health and fitness to work, but those close-cut suits don’t show off the contours of biceps, the width of shoulders. He’s not trained for appearance, and there’s a few extra pounds at his belly. But there’s a useful strength and solidity to him, and Sherlock is once more forced to re-evaluate what he might be capable of in a physical sense. A fight. And other things, maybe.

‘Don’t worry, you can get your hands on it later.’

He averts his eyes, and gets laughed at for it. Deserved, probably.

‘And try not to leave a wet patch, will you? Hold on for ten minutes and you can use the shower after me.’

Bastard.

But, fine.

 

*

 

Wanking finished – which took no time at all, not surprisingly – Sherlock leans on the bathroom tiles and lets water run down over his face. His judgement is compromised, but it doesn’t feel like the wrong move. Moriarty is already more relaxed, more open for having been offered a weakness to play with. It’s not like either of them weren’t expecting this; he knew he’d have to at least dangle the possibility, and he knew he’d offer himself up when it felt like it might work best.

But what he had never considered was that he might _really_ want it. He was prepared to fake it; he’s not at all sure he’s prepared for it to be real. When Mycroft said he thought this was working, ‘ _on you_ ’, he’d internally agreed – and it’s stupid, isn’t it, thinking he could get away with it? If his plan was to connect with Moriarty, give himself up as the sacrificial lamb on the altar of that man’s obsession…how had he really thought his own fascination wouldn’t respond the same way?

Ego.

He shuts the water off and straightens up, shaking it out of his hair. His cock still isn’t fully soft, and doesn’t feel like it’s going to be. But this isn’t about sex, and he can’t get lost in that. There’s so much more at stake, and this might be giving him a way in but it also gives him more to lose. Even if he saves his friends, he could lose something else. He doesn’t want another reason to not want Jim dead.

‘Stupid,’ he mutters, towelling himself off violently. ‘It makes everything so _stupid_.’

It felt good, though. And he can’t stop thinking about that hand; a feather touch, a fingernail, a phantom weight pressing between his legs.

 

*

 

‘Tell me then.’

‘About what?’

‘The person who made you realise sex affected you badly.’

Sherlock bites a corner off his toast, a delicate pull of teeth, a quiet chew. Stalling for time, while trying not to look like it. Jim is quite clearly not fooled, sitting across the table in jeans and a soft cotton shirt. The morning-after costume. The one that – mixed with the artfully messy hair and bare feet - screams _Sunday brunches_ and _potential boyfriend_ so loud he knows Jim means him not to miss it. Knows he’s wearing it ironically.

‘In school, there was a…a boy, obviously. It was an all-boys school. And despite the copious amounts of sex that happened, and will always happen when you lock hundreds of teenage boys up together, no one was actually allowed to be gay.’

‘Are you?’

‘No. I’m not – I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘Not a bit. Just curious whether you define yourself in any particular way.’

‘I don’t think about it. It’s not important.’

Jim waves a hand: _agreed, move on_ , so he does.

‘I developed a bit of an infatuation, I suppose you could say. Again, not uncommon in that environment. He was one of the few scholarship boys, so not really like the rest of us. I suppose I liked him for that.’

‘Was he pretty?’

Sherlock blinks. ‘What?’

Jim bites his own toast, smirking. ‘Was he _pretty_?’

‘I…don’t know. I suppose so.’

Eyes are rolled. ‘For God’s sake. Is it so hard to admit that you can be attracted to someone for no other reason than you like the way they look?’

‘I don’t really _notice_ the way people look, J-‘

‘Bullshit. You notice everything, and you fully understand how people react to the stereotypes of beauty. You use it yourself when you have to. Look at that whole mess with Irene Adler.’

He was wondering when that was going to come up. ‘What’s your point?’

‘Work it out for yourself. Or surprise me, and tell me your infatuation with this kid _was_ purely because he was very clever, or he was really nice to you. And he was really ugly.’

Sherlock sighs with less emphasis than he feels. Facing this sort of thing is the worst, but he doesn’t want to show it. ‘Fine, Jim. He was neither particularly clever, nor kind to me. He was vice-captain of the rugby team.’

That gets an immediate snort. ‘Into muscles, Sherlock? _Really?_ Liked the idea of him cornering you after rugger, all sweaty and covered in mud?’

Yes, actually. Sherlock just eats more toast, trying not to look mulish. It’s a mistake; Moriarty hoots with laughter, delighted. ‘This is the sort of insight Big Brother couldn’t give me. Go on then, what happened?’

Sherlock shrugs. ‘He realised I had noticed him. He encouraged it for the sake of his ego, and to make his friends laugh. I didn’t realise that. I was-‘

‘Blinded by lust. Cock overruled your head.’

‘-not at my best for a few months.’

He watches Jim _not_ laugh at that. Interesting. It’s not empathy, because he doesn’t feel it. Can’t, probably. But maybe the story – which is true – resonates with a memory of his own. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least.

‘How old were you?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘And you decided sex was stupid, and you wouldn’t bother with it?’

‘More or less. I conducted a few experiments in university, but nothing serious. Nothing about it changed my conclusions.’

‘Your conclusion, at fifteen years old, that you’d rather be celibate than lose control of your brain for even a few seconds. Even though you let drugs control it for _years_.’

Jim sounds almost personally offended. Sherlock wipes the corner of his mouth on a napkin, and sets it down. ‘Do you think you could have made me feel differently? If you’d come to me when we were young, do you suppose I’d care less about how it addles my mind?’

Jim focuses at once, bringing them into eye contact, a bright flashing x-ray of a thing. ‘Yes. You wouldn’t have cared at all.’

‘Presumptuous of you.’

‘No.’

You’re so sure?’

‘Yes.’

Sherlock’s stomach flops over in anticipation. He looks away. ‘Maybe. What do you think it would have been like?’

When there’s no immediate reply, he waits. When the silence goes on, he looks up. Jim is staring at him with unmasked vulnerability, caught in it, his mind twenty years away. Sherlock knows it because as soon as Jim realises it’s on display, he snaps back to attention; his face smoothing into its usual laconic mask, a cinema-screen of a thing, flashing up whatever he wants the viewer to see.

‘It would have been fun.’

Sherlock picks at crumbs, careful not to make any sudden jumps. They’re just chatting, nice and easy. ‘How, do you think? Because I think…we would have got into terrible trouble. But it would have been fun, yes.’

‘The worst trouble. And we wouldn’t have cared at all. We’d have laughed. They wouldn’t have known what to do with us.’

‘Can you imagine Mycroft’s face?’

‘I don’t need to. He still looks that way now.’

‘It’d be worse though. He wouldn’t have perfected it yet. And there’d be two of us. He’d-‘

‘-yes. He wouldn’t stand a chance.’

They’re grinning at each other. A moment of freedom, standing outside themselves, a few seconds of being the kids they might have been if things had been different. It can’t last; as soon as he has the thought he sees Jim have it too, and the smiles die away. Thinking about what might have been is less fun when there’s no hope of it coming true.

‘Do you regret not coming to talk to me? I wish you had.’

‘You would say that.’

‘But I mean it. I do, Jim.’ He really does. Really wants him to know it. ‘I can’t change how things happened, and I’m not going to apologise for getting into drugs. I’m not apologising for having all the things you didn’t, or for – as you see it – wasting them. I made my choices based on the life I was living, and I didn’t know you existed. But I _can_ say that if I’d known about you, I think things would have been very different for both of us.’

He’s careful as he says it. Quiet enough to be heartfelt, brisk enough to still be himself. It helps that he means it, and the expression on Jim’s face says that something has hit home. He’s not sneering, or angry – or at least, doesn’t seem it. _Stories,_ Sherlock thinks. Jim Moriarty likes to play with what’s real and what’s not. He gets away from the world by being other people, he lays crimes out in the fashion of fairy tales. He likes a good narrative, so let him have another one. Sherlock can play ‘what if?’ with the best of them.

‘A pretty thought. A pointless one. Obvious as well; anything would be different if even one thing is changed.’

Sherlock leans forward in his chair just a little. ‘It would have made a lot of difference to us.’

Jim doesn’t break eye contact. There’s a hint of unease to him, maybe, somehow. ‘Carl would still be dead. You wouldn’t stop me being what I am.’

‘That’s my point, I think.’

‘Say it then. I want to hear it.’

Sherlock leans back. He licks his lower lip, pushing words up into his mouth that don’t want to come.

‘You might have…’

‘Go on.’

‘-stopped me being what I am.’

Moriarty smiles. His eyes gleam and he leans back as well, satisfied, the expression weirdly possessive. It’s completely at odds with the soft and ruffled look he’s constructed for this conversation. ‘I think so too.’

Sherlock has to fight down the bit of him he _knows_ is ego screaming to be heard. It wants to say, _you would not,_ and _I made me_ – and of course he did, but he also knows that if there’d been a clever and fascinating boy to lead him astray when he was a teenager, he would have happily let himself be led. Anything for a distraction; anything for something new. And Jim Moriarty would have been new at any age. Exciting, always.

‘You won’t manage it now. But that doesn’t mean we have to be enemies.’

‘Enemies are more fun.’

‘People die when you _have fun_ -‘

‘-and I bet I could manage it now. I bet I could make you do all sorts of things to get your friends back alive.’

He won’t respond to that. Can’t encourage him. The same thought has crossed his mind, something that is not lost on Moriarty, clearly, as Jim melts away again. He’s like one of those optical illusion paintings; two images present at the same time, but you can’t focus on both at once. He’s a man or he’s a criminal mastermind; a human being or a ruthless brain that doesn’t care about anything.

‘For example, you care very little for people you don’t know. If the option to kill yourself was removed from the equation, it’d be quite easy to get you to murder a complete stranger. Three, even. One in exchange for each friend. You wouldn’t like it, but I bet you’d do it.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘You think? I suppose you’d hear darling _John’s_ voice in your head. Let’s see…’

Moriarty springs up from his chair. For a moment he’s completely still, and then his posture subtly changes. It takes on the remnants of a military bearing, and when he moves his arm it’s with a placed and precise gesture, finger pointing, a _perfect_ parody of John. The timbre of his voice is different but the accent is bang on-point, the inflection exactly right.

‘You’re a bloody _idiot_ , Sherlock. Why would you kill someone for me? I’ve got to – you’ve made _me_ live with that now. I was a soldier, do you think I want someone murdered in my place? For Chris’ sake, you don’t _give in_ to a lunatic.’

He’d laugh, but it’s not funny. John melts back into Jim, and he sits back down with easy grace. Sherlock taps two fingers together, sarcastic applause which is graciously accepted with an inclination of his head.

‘Mrs Hudson would say she’s old, so why sacrifice someone for her? Lestrade would pull the ‘don’t want some poor innocent bugger shot for me, Sherlock’ line as well, but he’d probably have the grace to appreciate it a little bit, if you did it. None of them would thank you for it. And of course you’d still have to live with yourself – but I think you’d prefer to live with it knowing your friends are still here, even if they’re too stupid to see what you’ve done to yourself for them.’

‘You’re probably right. But we don’t have to go that route.’

‘What route are we going? This is still your show, technically.’

‘We’re going down the route of ‘let’s leave them out of it’. Anyone else. This is between us.’

Jim looks a little amused at that, but he’s clearly not adverse to the idea. He seems keen, even though he only spreads his hands in the universal gesture of, _come on then, I’m waiting_. Sherlock sips his tea to buy himself a few seconds, hopefully allowing Moriarty the same time to back away from deciding random murder would be an _excellent_ way to end this. But he doesn’t think they’re in danger of that happening. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when – if – Jim loses his grip on what the two of them could be, and starts listening to the voices of chaos instead.

‘Do you want to go out for a walk?’ It gets a flicker of eyebrows that are easy to read. ‘Of course we’re allowed. We can do whatever we want. We’ll be watched, of course. Followed. I imagine we’ll be steered away from any places containing a lot of people. But some air might do us good.’

Jim’s smile is positively _filthy_. ‘And you don’t trust yourself alone with me for a full day.’

Sherlock leans in on a whim, mirroring the smile straight back at him. ‘We’re not going to be walking all day, Jim.’

‘Oooh.’ Lips purse, eyes flare. But behind them, calculation; always calculation. ‘Nice attempt to divert, by the way. A bit abrupt in the execution, a bit obvious, but considering the subject matter I’ll let you off for now.’

‘Nice John impression,’ he deadpans back at him. ‘Did you practice it in the mirror?’

‘You’d be _aghast_ at what I practice in mirrors, Sherlock.’

He’s thrown at once, and Jim’s laughing. What could he possibly practice in mirrors that could be that lewd? It’s probably for the best, though; any moment where he’s laughing instead of shouting or despairing is a good one. Some of the tension leaves the air.

‘I’ll phone Mycroft and let him know. Five minutes, I should think.’

‘I’ll get my shoes.’

Jim rounds the table and stops at his shoulder. Sherlock looks up, his hand on his phone. The air stills between them…and then starts to thrum. It always has when they’ve been close, but never quite like this.

‘Five minutes,’ Jim murmurs eventually, and there’s the lightest brush of fingers on cloth as he passes by. Sherlock exhales slowly, blinking himself back into the moment.

Jim’s right, of course. They’ve got a full day ahead of them, three full days, and he doesn’t trust what’s going to happen next.

He has the horrible feeling it’s going to be _fun_.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things were supposed to have progressed far more in this chapter, but it was starting to get long and RL has been impossible the last couple of weeks. I just wanted to get something, anything, up so people knew I hadn't abandoned this fic. I promise it'll move along in the next one!

 

 

 

‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Myc-‘

‘Are you out of your _mind_ , Sherlock?’

‘No. I am not. We’ll be leaving as soon as I hang up.’

‘You really have no consideration for anything else, do you? Thirty seconds warning to roll out a guard, evacuate the nearby streets-‘

‘There’s no need-‘

‘You have _no idea what he is_ , Sherlock!’

The note of panic makes him pause. Mycroft doesn’t panic. Mycroft _never_ panics. ‘You need to go to sleep. Jim and I are completely-‘

‘Oh _Jim_ , is it?’

‘Yes.’

There’s an exhausted laugh, and Sherlock frowns. His brother is, without fail, practical. He could sleep when they sleep, and be notified when they’re awake. There’s no need for him to be this bad…unless there is a need, and he just doesn’t know what it is yet.

‘He’s playing you, and you’re letting him because you like the attention. You have no idea what you’re doing. This is not what we agreed.’

‘But it is what’s happening. There’s no need for extraordinary measures. We’re just taking a stroll, and we won’t go far. I’ll keep him away from people, and you can watch from a distance.’

‘He’s going to kill you, Sherlock.’

There’s not much he can say to that. Except; ‘then at least I won’t infuriate you anymore.’ He hangs up without waiting for a reply, banishing the thought that says it might have been a cruel thing to say. He refuses to deal with Mycroft’s worrying when there are far more interesting things to think about.

‘I’m ready.’

He swivels on his heel. Jim is still in his ‘boyfriend’ outfit, but with shoes now. His black coat might look a bit severe over it, but he’s softened the impression with a red scarf that’s cheerful, almost festive. He looks as close to normal as he’ll ever get and it’s disconcerting, suddenly; a man in his flat who might soon be a lover; _this_ man, of all of them. His throat thickens and it’s hard to swallow, but he forces himself because he has to tamp down the sudden thrill of fear. Anticipation, maybe. Both.

‘I’ll just get my coat.’

He can feel Jim’s eyes follow him, and he’s never been so self-conscious knotting his own scarf before. When it’s done, they stand looking at each other. Sherlock discards a dozen inane comments, and still feels he should say something. But nothing will come, and in the end it’s Jim who breaks the silence.

‘How angry is he?’

‘Very. But he’s usually annoyed to some degree or another. He’ll get over it.’

‘Mm.’

Still looking at each other. Sherlock makes himself beak contact. ‘Come along, then. We can’t go far. And-‘

‘-yes, I know. Snipers on standby, et cetera. Does he really think I’m going to run away at this point? It’s just getting interesting.’

‘He doesn’t know that. At least, I hope not.’ Walking down the stairs feels odd, jarring him out of the space that’s been theirs for the last four days. ‘He’s probably assuming it’ll happen.’

‘Well, you have been building up to it since the beginning.’ Jim’s voice behind him is soft, and amused. ‘It’s been your plan all along. Hasn’t it?’

Sherlock opens the door, facing resolutely forward. The street is still dead quiet, tomb-still. It’s unnatural; a pocket of silence in the heart of the busiest city in Europe. The air is cold, shocking on his face.

‘It was something I was prepared to offer, if things went that way.’

‘Diplomatic. And you never thought you’d really want it, though it’s odd to me you’re that blind about yourself.’

He’d like to make a scathing remark, something along the lines of _are you sure I really want it?_ But Moriarty would use it as an excuse to delay, or it would put them right back at square one, and there isn’t enough time to get them back to where they are.

Besides, it would be a lie. He can’t stop thinking about what might happen later. So he shrugs one shoulder, and looks down at Jim as he pulls the door closed behind them.

‘I’ve had a lifetime of not being interested. You can’t blame me for not expecting that to change as soon as I meet you.’

‘Excuse you. I can very much blame you for it.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the grin, and starts walking. Not his usual stride, because he has nowhere particular to go. A stroll, annoyingly slow, but Jim falls in easily beside him and the pace seems fitting. A musing walk for musing thoughts.

‘Is this what normally happens? People talk about it before they…get involved.’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Sometimes? I don’t care what anyone else does.’

‘But you do know. You pretend to be one of them.’

Jim sighs, eyes turned to the sky as they amble past Speedy’s. It is, Sherlock can’t help noticing, full of plain clothes, armed officers. They’re drinking out of cups that hold no liquid.

‘If you’re in a nightclub and make eye contact with someone, you can fuck with no prior conversation. If you run into someone at work and get talking, and think they’re attractive, conversation – and dating – is usually necessary before things progress. How many dates depends on the person, and their preconceived notions of acceptability.’

An awful question rushes to Sherlock’s lips, and he barely has time to bite down on it before it’s out. He catches it just in time, and has to wonder what prompted the sudden need to know – and if the way Jim is eyeing him sideways is any indication, it’s too late anyway.

‘Yes,’ he says, casually. ‘You’ll always have to live with knowledge that Molly got there first. The two of you will be able to compare notes.’

Sherlock feels his face flush red. ‘I would never. And she wou…that would not be kind.’

‘Oh, well done _you_ for noticing.’

John would be pleased with that too, probably. Definitely.

‘Do you want to know how many dates it took her to say yes?’

‘No. It had to be less than three. I don’t need specifics.’

‘I’m surprised you care.’

‘I don’t. The idea that someone’s self-worth or respectability is tied to how much they like sex is completely stupid. If you and Molly wanted to, fine. But I think she’d be…’ he can’t find the right word, because he hasn’t considered how she’d feel about any of this. Not even after he told her he needed her. How key she was to everything, if this had gone differently. ‘…upset.’

‘Yes. She would be.’ Jim just sounds amused about the whole thing. ‘She’s very much in love with you.’

A beat.

‘Sucks to be her.’

Sherlock breathes out sharply. Jim chuckles and closes his eyes, face turned upwards. There seems to be something else coming, something unsaid that could be spoken, but he doesn’t know what it is. He has the feeling he doesn’t really want to know. He casts around for something else to fill the silence, and lands on; ‘Have you ever done it while _not_ pretending to be someone else?’

Jim turns his head, and blinks at him. Sherlock keeps his gaze steady.

‘You’re in danger of getting a one-track mind.’

‘You started it.’

‘Mm, well. If I had, do you think I’d tell you?’

‘At this point, yes. Or don’t; I won’t know the difference. But you can’t let me see you if you lie. It’s up to you.’

Giving Moriarty a choice is always a bad idea. But backing him into a corner is also a bad idea; worse, because he will react with excessive violence in one form or another. It doesn’t seem likely in this moment, everything calm and quiet, so Sherlock waits and Jim taps his fingers against his coat as he thinks.

‘…no,’ he says, eventually. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Do you want to see what that would be like?’

‘That wouldn’t be the main draw. Plenty of better reasons to get you into bed.’

‘It would be the main draw for me. I don’t need to go to bed with anyone, and wouldn’t contemplate it with anyo – well, all right, I did think about it with The Woman, but just briefly. With _you_ , though…there’d be no point if you’re just going to pretend to be someone else.’

Jim does not look impressed. ‘How would you know? I could perfectly emulate the Prime Minister’s O-face, and you wouldn’t realise. So I won’t waste that little gem on you, but the point stands.’

Sherlock shrugs lightly. ‘I know you well enough by now.’

‘If you say so, my dear. And of course you would say that. You’re you.’

‘Ego again? You seem determined to make it a flaw.’

That just makes Jim laugh, and Sherlock wants to know why but not badly enough to let this turn into a row. He keeps quiet, watching the road silent and empty in front and behind; grey buildings under a grey sky, the temperature a few degrees above freezing.

‘Did you walk this way on purpose?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says, all innocence, knowing full well that if they’d walked into Regent’s Park at the end of the road, Mycroft would have had a far easier time of keeping the area clear. As it is, there’s movement a street or two ahead, behind, and people standing at the cross-streets with the forced-casual air of plain clothes officers. Random roadworks are springing up and diverting traffic; a cyclist has been knocked off their bike, and the police luckily on-hand have blocked the thoroughfare to deal with it. They’re walking in solitude and silence and Jim just chuckles again, quiet delight all over him.

‘I don’t know what good he thinks it’ll do. If I wanted you taken out, it’d be done by now.’

‘Yes. But I think this is more about keeping spectators from seeing _you_ get taken out.’

‘Oh? Do I have a red dot on my back?’

‘A good point. Let me…’ he stops and Jim walks on, letting him see. ‘…you do. Three, in fact. Intermittent, but present.’

‘Goodness. He _is_ serious. Does he not realise that would be signing the death warrant of your little pals?’

‘Of course he does.’

‘But he doesn’t care about them. Just about you. And you’d hate him forever.’

There’s not much he can say to that. He doesn’t know if it’s true, but thinks it’s probably not. Forgive him, though? No, he would never forgive that, brother or not.

‘Do you never consider, Sherlock, just why he looks after you so much?’

‘I have more interesting things to think about. Anyway, it’s obvious. Family ties, obligation, all of that.’

He catches the side-eyed glance. The _knowing_ side-eyed glance, the amusement that isn’t simply teasing. Smug. Fat with knowledge. He sighs.

‘What do you have on him?’

‘A few things, but one in particular you’ll find very interesting. Be a good boy, and I might even tell you.’

Of course, it’s impossible to be sure when it’s James Moriarty speaking, but if it were anyone else, he’d bet everything he’s telling the truth. More importantly though…he frowns.

‘You now have five red dots on your back.’

Jim snorts. ‘He has no subtlety today. I’m surprised at him – lack of sleep is clouding his judgement if he’s reacting so obviously. And here I am, an innocent man in the eyes of the law, and he’s got snipers on me in broad daylight. How’s he going to stop someone noticing?’

‘More importantly, if he’s reacting, which one of our coats has got the bug in it?’

‘I think shoes are more likely, but it’s easy enough to find out.’

Jim puts his finger to his lips, and stays quiet for a few minutes as they walk. He seems to have a destination in mind, and Sherlock nods as they approach Portman Square Garden. A private, enclosed square of green, residents-access only, but of course he’s not surprised when Jim takes a wallet from his pocket, and beeps the gate open with a plain rectangle of plastic that looks like a credit card.

‘Do I want to know how many other places in the city that card will open?’

‘Probably, but I’m not telling. Don’t worry, though-‘ another grin as he pushes the gate wide, and stands back to let Sherlock through first, ‘-it won’t blow up NATO in alphabetical order.’

The square is a patch of colour in all the grey. They leave tiny fog clouds behind them as they walk to the nearest bench. Jim puts one foot up on the edge of the seat, and bends to unlace his shoe. ‘Fiver says I’m right.’

‘You’re on.’

Sherlock thinks he’s probably about to lose – shoes are actually safer places to conceal a bug, as long as they’re not in danger of breakage – but as it turns out, they’re both right. Jim wiggles the heel of his handmade Italian brogue, and finds what he’s looking for just as Sherlock’s fingers close on a tiny rough patch in the bottom hem of his coat. He swears quietly, and rips it out. Jim pulls a face, grinds his discovery under his heel, and starts checking the other shoe. ‘Do you know what this means?’

‘You’re going to do something spiteful and awful to my brother?’

‘Oh, that goes without saying. He’s ruined my shoes. But more pertinently, it means they tampered with my courier.’ He holds his hand out. ‘My phone, please.’

Sherlock hesitates. A shadow passes over Jim’s face.

‘If you tell me you haven’t brought it, I’m going to be _so_ disappointed.’

‘No, I’ve got it. I wouldn’t leave it lying around for them. We’re going to have to sweep the flat when we get back as it is.’ He takes the phone out, and weighs it in his palm. ‘What’re you going to do?’

‘Business.’

‘You realise your courier might not have been aware-‘

‘Don’t point out the obvious, Sherlock. And don’t tell me how to deal with my staff.’

Jim’s voice is still polite. But it’s also low, and cold, and dangerous. Sherlock hesitates again, because handing over this phone might well mean a man will be disposed of, and if Mycroft bugged the shoes _after_ they were delivered – which is likely – then that…wouldn’t be good. Unfair to kill a man, or at least make him unemployed, if it isn’t his fault. But if he doesn’t hand the phone over, this whole week might be ruined. Jim’s face is getting darker by the second.

He hands it over. Darkness turns into a sunny smile, and a cheeky blown kiss. Sherlock breathes out in silent relief, and half-turns as if examining the garden so he doesn’t see an order being sent that proves he just helped kill a man.

‘You really think I’m a monster, don’t you?’

‘Aren’t you? You don’t feel sympathy, empathy, or remorse. You do things any regular person would find monstrous.’

‘You already know what I think of regular people. And you like to think you don’t feel empathy either, even if it’s not true. Don’t judge me when you aspire to be the same when it suits you.’

When Sherlock looks back, the phone is already being held out. He pockets it without a glance, trying not to wonder what the text said. Jim has that hint of bemusement again, which would be infuriating if it weren’t so damn intriguing.

‘I don’t _aspire_ to it.’

‘All right, fine. You use it as an excuse to get away with bad manners.’ Jim’s voice twists into an uncanny – and uncomfortable – imitation. ‘’Do your research. I’m a high-functioning sociopath…’ – and then you expect people to let you off the hook for being an unbearable asshole.’

He tries to unclench his jaw, and only partly manages it. It makes his tone come out clipped. ‘That’s not as bad as being what you are, Jim.’

A shrug, laconic as a cat in the sun. ‘I don’t pretend to be anything else, Sherlock. I don’t _want_ to be anything else.’

It is worse, though, he thinks. To admit you’re a psychopath, to be aware of your mental imbalance, and choose to inflict it on people in this way. If Moriarty has the self-awareness to acknowledge it, then he could take steps to curb his impulses. But then he wouldn’t be Moriarty, and Sherlock knows he’s supposed to wish that were true, but he doesn’t. Terrible as the man is, he can’t wish he were different.

He sits on the bench next to him, shoulder to shoulder, worrying the crushed bug between his fingertips. ‘Who was the man in my flat?’

‘No one important. Just proving to your brother I can bypass his security whenever I feel like.’ A beat. ‘And I really was bored. You’ve taken a long time to get us to here, Sherlock.’

‘It needed time.’

‘You did.’

‘Mm. That is what I meant. But I think you did too. You need to know I mean it, and you’d never believe I did if I tried it on straight away.’

‘Are you sure I believe it now?’

Sherlock looks at him. Jim faces forward, entirely at ease. There’s a tiny breeze moving his hair around, and he looks a little tired in the washed-out grey of the morning. His skin still doesn’t have much colour. For a moment, he almost looks normal…but then he turns his face towards Sherlock’s gaze, and their eyes catch, and the contact is a knife through the cornea; a stare that could stun a man from a distance of thirty feet.

‘I think…’ Sherlock says, slowly. ‘You’ll want proof.’

The corners of Jim’s mouth turn up. ‘You know I want proof. And you won’t be able to fake it.’

‘I know. But you know I won’t be. If you suspected I was faking, you wouldn’t let it get that far to begin with. You wouldn’t put yourself in such a vulnerable position.’

The corners level out. ‘You know me less than you think you do.’

‘Oh? Got a thing for vulnerable positions?’

That earns him a quiet snort, and Jim returns his gaze to the distance. ‘You might get a chance to find out, you never know.’

‘…are you talking about a sex thing? Or just, you know…emotionally.’

Jim laughs out loud. It’s quite a nice sound actually, but then he rolls his eyes and Sherlock feels his face flush a bit. He mutters, ‘never mind,’ which just makes Jim laugh again.

‘Sex, darling.’

‘Yes. Well. Innuendo is not my forte.’

‘I know, which is why it’s funny. And you’re _adorable_ , by the way.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

Embarrassing, yes. It’s also nice to feel Jim’s amusement. When his mood’s good it lifts the air all around, and it’s comfortable to sit here beside someone who’s smiling, and happy to be near him. John’s like that, but not as much as he used to be. The novelty’s worn off a bit. But it’s a similar sort of sensation, compared to the many people he spends time with that actively wish he’d go away after a while.

‘What is it you have on Mycroft to make him react that way?’

‘Oh…’ Jim tilts his head back, eyes closed, grinning. ‘That’s a _juicy_ one. But one thing at a time, I think. We’ll see how you do with the problem in front of you first.’

‘You know I’ll get it out of him if you don’t tell me.’

‘He won’t tell you. Not this one.’

Sherlock taps his fingers against his leg. Priorities, yes. It doesn’t stop his curiousity biting at him, and he hates that. ‘He’s worried. I don’t think he’s slept for four days. He doesn’t react that way when governments collapse, or bombs go off in London.’

‘That’s because collapsing governments and bombs are _de rigueur_ in politics, and this is far more…’

‘Serious?’

‘Personal.’

Personal? Sherlock’s head draws back. Jim smiles.

‘Do you know you blink a lot when you’re confused, or processing?’

‘Do you know you go perfectly still?’

‘Yes. And I’m not going to tell you. Yet.’

Sherlock sighs when he wants to huff, and tries to let it go. He’s distracted by a movement at the corner of the square, and scowls at the back of a man on the other side of the railings, leaning against a tree. ‘They’re not subtle, are they?’

‘They’re not trying to be.’

‘Well-‘ he stands up abruptly. ‘I’ve had enough fresh air anyway. Let’s go back.’

‘All right.’

Jim gets up too and stretches, his arms out wide, his back bending in a sharp curve. He inhales like he’s trying to breathe in the world, spread like he’s offering to get struck down by the sky. The word _beautiful_ springs to Sherlock’s mind; it makes him blink again, because he doesn’t often assign that word to anything tangible, only to thoughts and plans, to intelligence and the most elegant of crimes. But that’s what Jim is, isn’t it? He’s made of his intellect, and it shines through every part of him. Of course he’s beautiful.

Still, he didn’t expect to recognise it physically. It earns him another amused glance.

‘I’d tell you to stop ogling, but I’m enjoying it too much.’

‘You’ll put me off if you keep saying things like that.’

‘Doubtful. Do you want to disturb your brother a bit more?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

Jim holds the gate open for him again. Once he’s let it go, he sticks one hand in his jeans pocket. Sherlock feels the other brush against the side of his palm…and then a finger hooks around one of his, then another, and then they’re walking hand in hand.

‘…is this what you normally do with people?’

‘God, no. Unless they think I’m the type that’s into it. Molly did, for example. Kitty did not.’

Jim’s palm is smooth, and cool. His hand is much smaller; it would be easy to dwarf it, or crush it, or twist the fingers to make a wristlock to control him, if necessary. But all Sherlock says is, ‘I’ve never done this before.’

‘I’m aware.’

He’s not sure he likes it. He’s not sure what the point is. But, ‘Mycroft’s head will be in his hands just now.’ And maybe that’s point enough.

‘Give it a few seconds, he’ll…oh, there you go.’

Sherlock uses his free hand to take his phone out, and hits the button to decline the call. Jim’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t comment, and Sherlock simply drops the thing back in his pocket. ‘He can’t say anything that interests me at this point.’

Or deter him. This is happening. Sherlock meets Jim’s gaze as they walk, and he’s vaguely aware of security personnel pretending to be normal people further up the street, and the absence of traffic, and the nip of cold air on his cheeks. But they’re not real, and they don’t matter. Jim’s hand is warming and his eyes are soft, alight and searching, and they’re what’s important just now.

‘Come on,’ he murmurs. ‘There are warmer places to be than this.’

The most obvious one springs to mind. To Jim’s too, if his expression is anything to go by – and when Sherlock gives himself a mental check, he finds only anticipation where nerves should be. That might change by the time they get back, but for now, he’s just going to let it be.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

The flat is exactly what Sherlock knew it would be; a haven from the outside, all the more comfortable for having left it for half an hour. The door is locked, the fire is lit. A teaspoon clinks gently against the side of a cup as he makes tea. Jim is searching the rest of his clothes for bugs, and Sherlock is mentally giving him kudos for only making _one_ comment about how it would be simpler to just not wear any at all.

The spoon swirls, and he stares into the pot. His belly became a writhing mass of nerves as soon as they stepped back inside. It would be easier if they were the horrible kind, the dread of an upcoming task you’d give anything to avoid. But they’re not. They’re the fizzing adrenaline an actor feels in the hours before getting on stage, or someone having to give a presentation, or…something else normal people feel nervous about. Fear, yes, but excitement too. Something coming that you can’t avoid and don’t really want to, but can’t help being jumpy about.

Maybe that’s not even true, he thinks. It’s not even nerves. Maybe? It’s the Christmas Eve feeling of a young child. _Something’s coming, and it’s going to be good_.

…God, even he doesn’t miss that innuendo. He snorts, and stops stirring. Takes a deep breath.

‘Are you laughing at a teapot?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fair enough.’

Jim comes into the kitchen and after sending a look Sherlock’s way, turns his attention to the table. ‘What do you reckon?’ He puts his palms flat on it, bends forward a little and grins up in pure mischief. ‘Want to do me like this?’

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. He’s half-aware of having gone still, with the spoon in mid-air. He knows he’s blinking a lot, but mostly he’s just seeing Jim with his jeans pulled down his thighs and his shirt pushed up his back, while…

He remembers to swallow. And thinks, _yes_ , but says, ‘do you want a cup of tea?’

Jim cackles, and straightens up. ‘Yes, all right. Toast as well, if you don’t mind.’

The instruction pulls Sherlock back to himself, gives him something to push against. He could thank him for it but Jim would only deny he’s done it on purpose, so he just nods at the bread bin. ‘You know where the loaf is. I’ll take jam on mine.’

‘Ugh. I hope you’re not under any illusions that I’ll always do this.’

Sherlock smiles to himself as he gets two cups down. That’s the first time Jim has made any allusion to life after this week. It has to be a good sign, doesn’t it? ‘We can fight about it later. Especially as these are the last two clean cups, and someone’s going to have to do some washing-up soon.’

Jim immediately touches his arm. ‘Tag, you’re it.’

‘Child.’

‘I still won.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘Yes yes, well done you. From the Crown Jewels to triumph over the washing up.’

Jim sticks his tongue out at him, and drops bread into the toaster. They’re fascinating, these juvenile mannerisms. _Last one to Sherlock is a sissy_. _Doofus_. _Orrrrdinary Sherlock,_ in that tone of voice, that walk. The fairy tales. _Just tryin’ to have some fun_. It smacks of a man who had no childhood at all…or maybe he’s reading too far into it, and Jim’s just that unhinged. Of course he’s that unhinged. But still.

‘Figured me out, yet?’

‘Not all of you, no. I don’t think either of us want that.’

‘Mm. Wouldn’t want to get boring.’

‘Oh.’ Sherlock chuckles, deep. ‘-we both know there’s no danger of that.’

He’s not prepared for the reaction. Jim blinks; once, then twice, and his breath catches as he draws it in fast. The loaf of bread drops to the counter and he turns into Sherlock’s space, looking up at him with wide, searching eyes. ‘Say it again.’

It’s easy to meet his gaze. There’s no lie in this. ‘You’ll never be boring, Jim. I’ll never find you dull.’

Another blink, but long this time. Sherlock can’t move. The world slows, fades, and disappears. Everything is the brown of those eyes, pulling him in. He doesn’t know why that touched a nerve and it doesn’t matter; Moriarty is vulnerable for the first time this week, touched by a simple truth and laid open to subtle attack. And all Sherlock wants to do is what he does; lean down with the intention of kissing him, anticipating how soft it’ll be, how much it’ll mean, how much he _wants_ to.

He’s stopped on the way. Jim’s hands, still chilly from their walk, touch his cheeks. The palms rest on his cheekbones, fingers running into his hairline. Sherlock feels his head drawn down, and for a second he’s confused. And then, _oh_ …their foreheads touch, and rest together, and he feels Jim exhale in a soft, relieved rush. It takes another second to realise he’s done the same, and that he’s still holding the teaspoon even though his hands are now bunched in Jim’s shirt, down by his waist. It doesn’t matter because nothing matters except the sensation of that great mind so close to his own, clicking and turning in sync, separated only by the tiniest width of blood, and skin, and bone.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. That doesn’t matter either. All that matters is that they’re breathing together, skin warm where it’s touching. So close to that beautiful, beautiful brain.

‘We’ll never get closer than this.’

It’s the smallest whisper, but he hears it. Even if Jim only thought it, Sherlock has the notion he’d hear it.

‘Even when I’m inside you, or you’re inside me. Never closer than this.’

He’s released. It’s a shock; a rude jolt back into a place he doesn’t want to be. He breathes in sharply, alone, and Jim has already turned back to the toaster. The bread hasn’t popped yet. The teapot is still steaming.

‘Can we go to bed?’ he says, and barely recognises his own voice. And Jim just nods, staring a hole through the wall.

‘Yes.’

 

*

 

The bedroom door sounds very loud when it clicks behind them. Sherlock thinks longingly of tea to wet his mouth. But then Jim looks at him, and he realises he can still feel the place where their heads touched. A warm memory of pressure, and his heart jolts, and it’s _fascinating_ , isn’t it? What happens to the mind when something stronger than logic turns up.

A bit terrifying as well. His legs feel shakier than he’d admit, if asked - but Jim probably knows it already. He’s fiddling with his shoelaces more than necessary, probably to allow Sherlock time to collect himself.

‘I don’t-‘ He feels the beginnings of another blush threaten. But Jim just looks up, and raises his eyebrows. ‘It doesn’t matter. No, I mean - - you already know. I don’t…really know what I’m expected to do here.’

Jim stands straight. The leather heel of his shoe squeaks as he slides it off. ‘You asked if we could-‘

‘I know. That’s fine, I do want to. What I mean is…’ he gestures around in a hopeless sort of way. It’s a bit weird when Jim nods, rather than laughs.

‘Just get into bed. We did alright at that this morning. Keep some clothes on, if you like.’

‘Are you going to?’

There is a smirk this time, and Jim spreads his hands. ‘Do you want me to? This is your show, remember?’

Sherlock turns away, frowning but starting to unbutton his shirt at the same time. ‘You’re not doing this because I’m telling you to. Please don’t pretend you are.’

‘Yes, _sir_. Just tell me what you’d be more comfortable with, and we’ll go from there.’

Sherlock ignores the jibe. What he’d be most comfortable with is not having to take the lead, but it has to be that way, and it probably is good to keep control of things. He supposes it would be easier if he could trust Moriarty, but that’s out of the question. His shirt hits the floor. Then his trousers, and he yanks his socks off. He picks everything up and dumps it in the corner by the wardrobe, mainly so he won’t have to turn around. Clothes are coming off behind him. He doesn’t look but can’t resist seeing it in his mind. He can’t ignore the way he’s half-hard already, and the nerves have not even begun to go away.

‘I’ll be kind and tell you something, Sherlock.’

‘Oh?’

There’s the unmistakeable sound of someone getting into bed. His bed, for the first time. Well, there was the Woman, and that seems so long ago now. She was there but she was only sleeping and he was never planning to join her, and if he had - - did he even want to? It doesn’t seem-

‘I’m a lot of things, some of them you know about. But I’ve never forced anyone into sex in my life. I’ve never needed to, and never wanted to. So, if you change your mind…’

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder. Jim is on his side, head propped on his hand. He looks…good. It doesn’t help calm his racing mind. ‘Is that the truth?’

Another smirk. ‘Well, there’s the thing. You’ll have to trust I wouldn’t lie about that, if you get in here with me. Why, do you think I would?’

Thinking at all is a bit of an issue at the moment. Sherlock turns and takes a stride, fully aware of Jim’s gaze flitting south, and how obvious everything is. Nothing he can do about it. He sits on the edge of the bed, his spine tight with fear.

‘I think…it’s as I’ve already said. You want me to want you. I don’t know whether you’ve never forced anyone before – I think I’d be surprised if you’ve never subtly manipulated a person into wanting you, because you as good as admitted it already. You look for what they want, and become that. But…I don’t think you’ll do that to _me_.’

‘And that’s what matters here and now. So why don’t you lie down, and make an attempt at relaxing?’

It’s as good advice as any. Sherlock lifts the duvet and slides in, immediately aware of Jim looking down at his face and chest. He pulls the covers up high for the illusion of safety. It’s not _much_ of an illusion, especially with his cock pushing at his underwear as it responds to everything at once. But it’s something.

‘You said you experimented a bit in uni. How far did you go?’

Sherlock tries to sound calm. ‘I kissed two people. One boy, one girl.’

‘That’s it?’

‘The boy tried to touch me. I let him for a little bit, over my jeans, then stopped. The girl – she put my hands on her breasts. They weren’t very interesting, so I stopped that as well.’

‘Not exactly a thorough investigation. Were you high at the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember how it felt?’

‘Yes. Boring.’ He doesn’t look at Jim’s face, but feels his eyebrows go up all the same.

‘Are you bored now?’

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Hmm.’

There’s movement under the duvet. And then, a fingertip tracing down his ribs. It’s light enough to tickle, but manages to be exciting instead of funny.

‘Before this morning, when’s the last time you had an orgasm?’

‘I don’t…uh – three weeks, or so. Three and a half.’

‘Manual, or – and it feels odd to be asking this of a man your age, but let’s go with it – manual, or wet dream?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘You said I could ask questions. You said you’d answer. And you don’t really care if I know this.’

Damn him for always being right. ‘Manual. In the shower. It’s functional.’

‘What were you thinking about? If you say Watson, I will kill him.’

Sherlock huffs in dry amusement, even though Moriarty is probably serious. ‘Not John, no. Never John. But it wasn’t you, either. It wasn’t anyone.’

‘Mm.’ The fingertip follows a ridge of bone, feather-light. ‘You won’t be able to say that again after today. You’ll always be thinking of me.’

‘Is that why you want to do this?’

Half a shrug. ‘A bit, I suppose. Mostly, you just turn me on. Your brain more than your body, but there’s nothing here that won’t do it for me.’

‘…I don’t know whether to say thank you, or not.’

‘I don’t care what you say. I’m only stating facts. I normally go for bigger men, because I enjoy letting them think they’re in charge and then proving they’re not. But you...’ The smirk is a little wry this time. ‘You’ve always been something of an exception, haven’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’ Sherlock closes his eyes, and focuses on his breathing. The fingertip is very distracting. He can feel the warmth of Jim’s body, and the unusual dip in the bed from having another person in it. Even the covers feel weird, spread over someone else instead of falling close around him. The logical part of his brain says _just get it over with_ , but the rest of him can’t make his mouth be that brusque.

‘You’re trying to tell yourself it’s easy. Because it should be, logically. Right?’

Jim’s voice plays gently into his ears, as the touch is joined by the rest of his fingers, then his palm, sliding up onto the smooth skin of Sherlock’s abdomen. He is harder at once, and tries not to acknowledge it. Impossible.

‘Logically, sex is just touching. Penetration, if that’s what you want. Rub things together, feel good, hit a climax. That’s what you’re telling yourself, isn’t it? Answer me, Sherlock. Isn’t it?’

He wets his lips. Nods.

‘It won’t be like that.’ The whisper is close to his ear; warm breath, and nails that draw the faintest lines over his stomach. His muscles contract, and Jim laughs softly. ‘Not between us, Sherlock. It’ll be much better than that, I promise.’

And then the breath is gone, and the hand is gone, and Sherlock opens his eyes to the immediate thought of _touch me again_.

He doesn’t say it. He says, ‘this is what I meant about subtle manipulation, I think.’

Jim grins, dazzling so close. ‘Nothing subtle about it. But just remember – it wouldn’t work if you didn’t want it. If you were just getting this over with to save your friends, you’d have got in here naked and spread your legs by now.’

Sherlock can’t deny that either. ‘I’m not trying to stall-‘

‘-I know what you’re doing-‘

‘I’m just-‘

‘-I _know_ what you’re doing, Sherlock. You’re scared, and you’re telling yourself there’s no need, but you’re also learning that even you have physical responses you can’t control with logic. This is one of them. Sex with someone-‘

Jim cuts off, and Sherlock looks up at him. The memory of Baskerville races up; his body’s response to fear and how disgusting it was that he couldn’t control it. He can’t control this either, but it’s not disgusting. He’s more interested in what Jim was about to say, but only gets a sardonic smile and a shake of the head. ‘Let’s just say, one night stands are easy to control.’

‘Oh.’ Obvious. ‘But this isn’t that. This is sex with someone-‘

He cuts off too. He sees Jim’s problem. It’s not easy to finish that sentence.

‘Indeed. So.’

‘So.’

They look at each other. Sherlock imagines his lungs expanding, and counts the long breath out. Jim just watches and though there’s no expression on his face, Sherlock knows what he’s waiting for.

‘If I ask you to…will you show me? I know you want me to make the move, but I don’t… I assure you, afterwards, I will not make it seem as though I was just enduring it.’

‘You’re going to have to lose the odd formal tone, my dear. It’s not conducive to asking someone to fuck you.’ Jim’s teeth flash again. ‘You will have to make it clear you want it.’

Sherlock wets his lower lip one more time. ‘I want it. I’m…hard. I’ve enjoyed you touching me so far.’

‘And?’

‘I’d like you to do it again.’

You could mistake Jim’s smile for kind, if you didn’t know him. But no one could mistake the look of triumph in his eyes. Dismay twists in Sherlock’s chest and he thinks, _do I want him to want me without needing to win?_ He dismisses the notion. That can’t be true, especially now, with so much at stake. This is no time for sentiment and anyway, he and Jim could never be so uncomplicated.

‘It’s your game, Sherlock. Your wish is my command.’

A warm palm slides back onto Sherlock’s stomach. His muscles contract again. There’s a throb of pleasure between his legs. He makes a tiny sound, and closes his eyes as fingers stroke at the ridge of his abs.

‘I’ll let you go first. Show you how easy it is. Give you something to copy, and build on. Okay?’

Sherlock nods – then gasps, because Jim’s lips brush over his nipple. He’s never thought about how that would feel before. It’s so light, and a tingle curls underneath his skin. He watches as the nub draws in and then up, peaking eagerly towards the soft touch of Jim’s mouth.

‘That’s…that’s nice,’ he mutters, and his head falls back to the pillow as lips close around it and suckle. Definitely nice, but not as distracting as the fingers that are now running along the edge of his underwear, following the line three inches below his navel. He thinks, _should have worn higher pants_ and then wants to laugh, except it’s not funny and he probably shouldn’t have worn pants at all. A fingertip dips under the elastic. Just one, and it waits there while Jim’s tongue drags slooooooowly across his chest, warm breath and a long, wet lick that cools in the aftermath, leaving Sherlock’s chest to move up and down under the trail Jim leaves on his body. He should think of something to say, encouragement or just to confirm it’s all okay, but no words will come from a brain flaring in a thousand directions at once, all thoughts floundering in the soft mess of pleasure that seems to make up his being.

Jim’s lips tug at his other nipple. The fingertip retreats, letting the elastic hug his abs once more. But then, nails. They score a line, two lines, three, over the edge of the cotton entirely failing to keep him modest. There’s another soft pluck of heat between his legs, a sensation of tightness as he bulges against the cloth, stretching up to where the fingers promise and tease, asking for them but being allowed nothing but the threat of what’s to come.

‘Touch it.’

It blurts out quietly. Sherlock feels his cheeks redden, and the lips stop their wet tug. He tries to say _sorry_ , but it’s not a word he’s used to. From what he can see of Jim - the bit of him he’s not embarrassed to look at – he doesn’t seem to mind.

‘Touch what?’

‘My…me. Touch me.’

Teeth scrape. Sherlock’s nipple is rigid. There’s a damp spot down there, sticking to skin that’s crying for attention.

‘Touch _what_ , Sherlock?’

He grits his teeth. ‘My pe-‘

‘Don’t you dare.’

‘My…cock.’

‘Mm.’

Jim’s palm slides over the taut bulge. It rests there; pressure down his length, and the heel of Jim’s hand, its weight and edge, right where the crown is pushed tight against wet cotton. His feet shift of their own accord. Jim chuckles and moves a little closer, body heat warm against the side of Sherlock’s thigh, and one firework thought whizzes over whether Jim is naked before it explodes in a shower of _doesn’t matter_. He watches the remnants scatter, trapped beneath the dangerous confines of a hand touching him between his legs.

‘My my. This…’ Jim hums deeper, squeezing. ‘…is going to be a real pleasure.’

‘Mm. You’ve…won, I suppose. You’ve wanted this.’

A chuckle, amused, not dry. ‘You’re overthinking. I’m just anticipating how much I’ll enjoy this stretching me open.’

Oh.

‘….I don’t know what to say to that.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything. And I will make that happen.’

Sherlock believes him. He’s already clutching at a fold of the duvet cover, trying to ground himself so he doesn’t drown in the wonderful, alien heat of what’s happening. Jim is in no hurry, playing with his trophy with obvious pleasure. He squeezes again, and then two nails score lines up the pulled-tight cotton and tap over the wet spot. Sherlock makes a noise in his throat, and his inner thighs clench. Jim chuckles again, low, insidious, hot against his ear.

‘Shall I make you come in your pants, Sherlock?’

He shakes his head. No. No, that’s not what he wants. Jim clicks his tongue. The pad of his thumb, his index finger, pinch softly at the head. Sherlock’s already-full bollocks pull up tighter.

‘No, that’s not what I want either.’ Teeth on Sherlock’s earlobe, tugging once. ‘Do you want me to suck it for you?’

He didn’t think his mouth could get more dry. The mental image, the promise of wet pressure…

‘Ohhhhh, he likes that. Is that want you want, darling? Fill my mouth up, stretch my lips around it? Suck it all sweet, come all over my tongue…’

The hand is pushing, stroking, fingertip drawing back and forth right at the most sensitive part, that patch where crown meets shaft. Teasing, teasing, too little, nowhere near enough. A maddening scratch, _tickle tickle_ , and Sherlock’s toes are curling and nerves are alive from his nipples to his knees.

‘Ngh,’ he says again, and Jim’s teeth scrape on his jaw as the heel of his hand pushes firmly down the shaft. ‘ _Ngh._ ’

‘Didn’t answer, so I’ll take that as a no. For now.’

No. He meant to say yes. Didn’t he? God. Just… ‘Please touch it,’ he mutters, and earns himself another laugh.

‘Your show.’

The breath is back in his ear, whispering words he never thought could sound so good.

‘Take your knickers down, Sherlock.’

A sarcastic comment is there for a nanosecond before it makes way for the motor functions necessary to push his pants down his thighs. Jim’s hand has disappeared and suddenly the quilt, that one protection, is also pushed away. It’s just him lying there with his cock straining upwards, leaking from the tip, shining wet with a dribble over the crown.

‘I really could lick that clean for you, but you had your chance.’

He wants… _yes, please_ , he wants that, but the words won’t come and Jim’s fingernails are scoring up his thin, white, quivering skin, the muscles an underground tremor. Tsunami metaphor…simile? he thinks and then lets it go, because James Moriarty has made a ring of thumb and finger and is drawing it slowly over the head of his cock. Thought vanishes. Time squeezes to the universe between his legs. Breathing is not a thing.

‘Try to hang on a bit.’

Sherlock nods. He thinks. Doesn’t matter. His abs are strained tight, his ass clenching to push himself up through that ring.

‘Thaaat’s it. Take what you want. Go on.’

Yes. That’s tight. That’s…he thrusts up through it, over and over and that’s good, it’s good, it’s so – _oh_ , yes it’s good. Firm, and a tiny squeeze on the shaft every push up, and it’s…yes, it’s…yes. And now it’s…loose, fucking…loose, why is it _loose_? He hears a noise that must be his own, because Jim is chuckling and there’s no one else here.

‘Don’t panic. You’ll be allowed. I’ve waited a long time to see you lose it for me.’

‘You’ll…you’ll get what you want. I th...I know.’

‘I always do.’

But where are the _fingers?_ Sherlock makes a noise that’s horribly like a whine, and shifts on the bed. Jim stretches and when he settles back he’s got a bottle in his hand. Sherlock considers, in the space of a blink, how lube will feel sliding up his cock and immediately has to think of something else.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Had it packed a week ago.’

Sherlock believes him. Sherlock…is watching a big gob being pumped out, sees it shining clear and wet in Jim’s palm. He tells himself to relax, which only makes him more aware of the ache in his balls. ‘Is it difficult for you?’ he asks, to stop himself saying _please_ again. ‘Pretending to be nice?’

‘Torture. Because of course I’m entirely incapable of being nice. If I commit one generous act, part of the universe collapses in on itself. For example-‘

Sherlock gasps. The lube is warm, slippery, and it squelches through Jim’s fingers as Sherlock feels the measured clasp; index, middle, ring, little finger, then the thumb, then the _rub_ and thunder rolls up his nerves in a promise of incoming storm. ‘Oh God,’ he whispers, and pushes his hips up to meet the downward stroke.

Jim speaks as if there’s been no pause for blasphemy. ‘-I’m being very kind now. Being careful with you. Making sure you enjoy yourself. You’re probably single-handedly responsible for the death of three different planets.’

‘I don’t care. Just keep doing that.’

‘Keep doing what? Tell me what I’m doing.’

‘That… _that_. Go - - there, squeeze it _there_.’

Jim does not squeeze it there. He pushes the edge of his knuckle against that golden spot and _twists_ , and Sherlock was not expecting it and has never felt anything so good in his life. His necks strains and he’s arching, arching, and he can’t stand it; he’s a bow drawing tight, and…Jim loosens his hold and Sherlock quivers back down to the sheets, pleasure racing pleasure up and down the nerves of his thighs, chasing the final explosion.

‘Not so quickly. You’ll be embarrassed.’

‘I won’t. I don’t get emb-‘

‘-liar-‘

‘I’m not…oh, for God’s sake…’

He takes Jim’s wrist and tugs his hand back where it needs to be, ignoring the laugh, knowing that he _will_ be embarrassed if those fingers don’t go tight and give him what he wants, if they just sit there and he has to beg for it. He won’t; neither of them wants that.

…probably won’t.

‘Go on. You’re dying to see me come.’

‘True.’

The fingers clench. Sherlock grunts, and his head falls back; just long enough to let him breathe before looking down again. He’s never taken time to appreciate the sight of his own cock before, but then it’s never been this hard before, never been shiny with too much lube, never been slick, and red, and leaking all over Jim Moriarty’s fingers before. ‘Oh,’ he whispers, knees spreading. ‘ _Oh_ ,’ again, as the edge of Jim’s thumbnail teases underneath. His balls are swollen beyond bearing, and his pants are stretched tight against his straining, open thighs.

‘That’s it,’ Jim whispers, and he sounds hungry now, waiting, watching. His fingers squeeze, slide, _ripple_. ‘That’s it, come on.’

Sherlock’s chest is heaving too fast; it almost hurts, and he doesn’t care; his toes are cramping where they’re curled too tight, he can’t feel the fingers twisted into his sheet. Doesn’t matter, not important, Jim’s hand is slow and firm and he can’t bear it any more, he can’t; his body clenches and a noise bursts from his throat, raw, too high, and Jim’s laughing as Sherlock’s mouth opens, both of them watching him erupt, white ribbons over his stomach, onto Jim’s working fingers, the pleasure a fat roar from every nerve.

He sags afterwards. Hazy, he realises he’s not thinking, and it’s the perfect sort of relief. Jim is still working his cock, just gently, helping him down. Some time passes, doesn’t matter how much. Another noise, quiet now, and he pushes at Jim’s wrist when it gets too much. There’s a moment where it feels like it won’t move, but then it does and Sherlock opens his eyes to find Jim staring at his fingers, moving them in the light, watching the come and lube that coats them.

Don’t,’ he says, but too late. Jim glints a grin and then licks at the mess; seemingly with pleasure, though Sherlock can’t see how lube would ever taste good. The triumph is probably sweet enough, he supposes, and idles his own gaze south to check. Yes, Jim is hard. Naked too, unashamed of his own arousal. His cock is thick, and looks like it means business. Sherlock wants to look away, but can’t. He knows where that’s going to be. Knows where he’s going to ask for it to be.

‘Looking forward to it?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

Jim laughs again. He seems lighter now. Almost too much to deal with, shining as he is, black hair and shiny white teeth, this wide expanse of touchable skin. Sherlock would like some time to regroup, but he can’t ask for that – and anyway, he’s not sure his body would oblige. Everything is a languid pile, bones and skin and the ache of muscles. He’s aware of himself in a way he hasn’t been since the last time he knew he’d overdosed, and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not just going to stick it in you.’

‘You’ll make me ask for it, no doubt.’

A shrug. ‘We’ll see.’

Sherlock narrows his eyes. Jim is still smiling - odd, surely? – and doesn’t stop as he waggles his eyebrows and then dips down, licking a white spot off Sherlock’s chest. It’s quietly powerful, watching him taste something that’s come from his body, enjoying it even. But the smile remains suspicious.

‘Jim?’

‘Mm?’ Another lick, another spot cleaned away.

‘When you were checking your clothes earlier, did you find any more bugs?’

‘I _did_. Just one. The naughty thing had hidden it in a button in my Versace shirt.’

Sherlock’s blood is already running cold. ‘You didn’t destroy it, did you.’

‘Destroy it? No. No, I stuck it on the…careful!’

Jim laughs again as Sherlock pushes him away, scrambling to the edge of the bed. He didn’t even try to hide it, the bastard. It’s just sitting there on the bedpost, a tiny patch removed from its button casing. He swears, and picks it up.

‘Go to sleep, Mycroft. We’re fine.’ He crushes it between his fingers, glaring at Jim who’s positively beside himself with mirth. ‘You bloody....’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I bet he’s sitting over there with his dick in his hand. Or a nice wet stain on his latest tweed. The only question is whether he’s losing it over me or you. My money’s on you, to be honest.’

‘ _Jim_.’

Not something he wants to think about. Not when Jim is alive and laughing, unselfconscious, sprawled on his back, bright-eyed for the first time in days. Sherlock tosses the ruined bug away and lies down so their thighs touch, his hand on the inside of his knee. ‘There was no need for that,’ he says, and knows he might be embarrassed the next time he sees Mycroft, for about a minute, and then it’ll be dismissed as unimportant.

He assumes Mycroft will know, as he does, as Jim does, that nothing about this is unimportant. But his brother will pretend, for his sake.

‘No need, except it is _funny_ , Sherlock.’

‘You would think so. Are you going to stop laughing so I can-‘

‘So you can what? Say it. There’s no need to be a prude.’

‘I’d like to see if I can make you come.’

Jim makes a sound like a buzzer. ‘Wrong answer. One more attempt, and you’re out.’

‘I’d…like to make you come.’

‘That’s better.’

Jim looks nice when he stretches. Well, not _nice_. He’s never nice, no matter what he says. But he definitely looks attractive, and Sherlock’s never touched another man’s penis before – not when he’s been alive anyway; corpses don’t count, probably – but it’s easy in the end, because he wants to see what Jim’s face does, whether this is the thing he’s been waiting for all these years, whether this is what will finally break through. He licks his thumb and strokes it over the crown, fascinated at how it wavers in the air, blindly seeking the touch it wants.

‘Did you have sex with the reporter?’

Jim tilts his head, a noncommittal gesture. Sherlock takes hold of his cock – the skin is so soft, but he’s so hard underneath – and gives it a gentle tug.

‘Richard did. When he could. He couldn’t perform sometimes, too nervous and stressed. She was very kind for someone who can’t actually stand men like Richard.’

‘She wanted something from him.’

‘She thinks she likes looking after men like that. She really wants one to challenge her. The sex would be spectacular then - not that it wasn’t okay. Richard was happy with it.’

‘But you’d never be.’

‘If you want to figure out what sex I like you could always try having sex with me, instead of analysing every aspect of my penis – if you want to know how much it weighs, Sherlock, I can tell you. If you want to make it come, stop tickling it. I showed you what to do.’

‘Mm.’ He can’t deny he’s analysing it – weight, texture, length, bounce – but that happens without thought or effort, nothing he can do to stop it. ‘You showed me what would work so I only have to copy it. I don’t think that’s what you really like. Not all the time.’

‘Then decide what I’m going to like today, and do it.’

‘Not enough data yet.’ He glances up, smiling as he closes his fingers around it. Jim’s expression stays relaxed, but his eyes are not. They never are. Sherlock teases under the head with the edge of his knuckle; Jim’s cheek twitches once and an eyelid dips a fraction, but that’s it. ‘I’d guess you like being taken out of your head. That means being forceful in some way. Pain, perhaps. Restraints. Engaging mind and body in different ways, but at the same time. Sensory deprivation? I imagine you’ve tried it all.’

‘So is this how you, a man who’s never had sex before, plans to break me? You’re going to come up with something new in bed?’

They’re still looking into each other’s eyes. Sherlock keeps his smile, but he knows Jim won’t miss the way he’s searching for clues as he ripples his fingers, squeezes then tugs, watching, watching, always watching.

‘Doubtful, I admit.’

‘I’m glad you’re realistic about your chances.’

He sounds amused. Sherlock makes sure to look slightly abashed. But that’s exactly what he’s going to do, and he’s sure Jim knows it. It won’t be enough to get them over the line, but it’s definitely a gateway to something else.

‘Tell me if I’m doing this wrong.’

‘Not a chance.’

Sherlock tightens his grip. Rubs the tip with his thumb until it’s slick with pre-come, and Jim’s breathing has quietly quickened. The index finger on his left hand twitches when he’s pushed further into pleasure; Sherlock can tell because he leaks more, and after five minutes, comes close to an actual moan.

‘Are you planning to tease me for three full days? Not new. S’been tried before.’

‘That wasn’t my idea, no. I’m just enjoying the view.’

Jim’s eyes, which had taken to closing for long blinks, open at once. Sherlock doesn’t look away, but gives a small smile; encouragement, he hopes, and it seems to work because Jim just exhales and relaxes on the pillow.

‘I am very pretty.’

‘You are. Even more so like this.’

‘Got a thing for having men at your mercy, Sherlock?’

‘You’re not at my mercy. I think I’m developing a thing for seeing you enjoy yourself.’

Perhaps the wrong thing to say, even if it’s true. Jim’s forehead creases, and a fraction of relaxation leaves the air. ‘You’ve seen me enjoy myself before.’

‘Not like this.’

‘Who’s fault’s that?...and for God’s sake, do it harder.’

‘No,’ he says, and also enjoys the look of surprise that crosses Jim’s face. The cock pulses in his hand, and it’s that which makes him, on a whim, shift down the bed. He hears Jim exhale, surprised again, and he doesn’t give himself time to think; when the fat, wet crown emerges from the ring of his fingers, he leans down and pushes it between his lips.

It tastes of faint salt, and warmth. Velvet skin wrapped around iron, a delicious, turgid strength lying on his tongue. He sucks, pushing all doubt away, not allowing himself to dwell on insecurities because of course he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Jim knows that, but Sherlock is willing to bet it’s going to work anyway.

‘This is why I like you,’ he hears, and wants to smile because it’s why he likes Jim too, the unpredictability, the breaking of expectations. He pushes down and fills his mouth, sucking, sucking, rubbing his tongue up and down the underside, and it’s all a bit clumsy and wet but Jim is moaning anyway, very quiet, little more than a deep breath or two. It’s music, a beautiful sound, so Sherlock drags back up and licks at the head, using his fingers to rub and his ears to gather data, until all the evidence has drawn together of its own accord. Jim’s tensing muscles, his hips pushing up just a bit, his fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair and keeping him down, until _ohhhh_ , a groan, and Jim’s cock twitches and lets go. Bitter salt in a warm flood, and it could be unpleasant but it’s not, it’s really not. It’s…he’s not sure what it is. But definitely not unpleasant.

He lifts his head when Jim releases his hair. Looks up into a dark brown gaze. Jim’s eyes flit over his face and then lock in again. He looks…puzzled. It’s sort of what Sherlock was going for, but there’s an undertone of calculation as well, because how could there not be?

Sherlock licks Jim’s thigh once, for no reason he can speak of. Then he comes up to lie beside him, and their eye contact does not waver.

‘What are you looking for, Jim?’ he whispers, not wanting to break the calm. And Jim just looks at him, not disaffected but giving nothing away.

‘That,’ he says, and rolls to his side, showing his back. ‘Is still for you to decide, my dear.’

Sherlock watches the back, and the sides, and the neatly-cut hair; the bend of his knees and his exposed backside. He doesn’t look any smaller naked than he does clothed. Maybe even less so, without material to bind him and keep him tethered to earth.

‘I’ll decide later,’ he mutters, and lies flat on the sheets. He will, too. But right now he’s…disappointed, he thinks, even with the taste still strong in his mouth. But what did he expect? James Moriarty to be so overwhelmed and happy they’re doing this, that he becomes something he’s not? Did he want to be pleased with himself for making him come? He’s a little gratified that it wasn’t difficult, but if he’s going to be honest, he expected…more.

‘Did I do it wrong?’

‘People have sex until they come. You got the expected result. So, no.’

There’s a finality to his tone that says he doesn’t want to speak anymore. That’s fine. Sherlock’s heart is sinking, because yes, he’s done it wrong. _It won’t be like that. Not between us…it’ll be much better than that, I promise_.

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Now is not the right moment. There may only be three days left but when it comes to Moriarty, timing is everything. Sherlock pulls the quilt up to keep off the November chill, and tries to find his way back to thoughts that don’t involve sex. And to think, just a few short days ago, that used to be the norm. A simpler time, but he’s already not sure he prefers it. He’s never been one to enjoy the easy life.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

_Day Five. 00:05._

 

It’s starting to feel like there’s never been a sound in London. The quiet outside the flat is not as strange as it was, because the world out there has receded to something unreal. This, he thinks, is how Stockholm Syndrome starts. But he can’t have that because he’s the jailer here, he’s the one in charge, Moriarty is the one who has to come around to _his_ way of thinking.

He shifts in his chair. The leather squeaks quietly, pliable from the heat of the dying fire. Sherlock thinks about the rug under his toes as they curl into it. Needs hoovering. Mrs Hudson. Toast crumbs, and…and raspberry jam, and tea, and…

…he licks his bottom lip. The left side of his face is cooler where it’s exposed to less heated air, but it still feels tacky and unreal. Not dissimilar to a drug high, with thoughts racing one into another. Except now he’s…slower, and…and, something. Not sleep, something else. His head moves towards the heat in a lazy roll, but he’s very aware that he’s entirely composed of electricity, neurons buzzing, synapses alight, nerves dancing under his skin. Every single one standing tall, sparking against the underside of his skin.

His fingers twitch. His mouth is open, and he can hear his own breath. It’s almost the only thing he can hear, now that London doesn’t exist, and the only world that matters is held within these four walls. Smaller even than that; a bubble around this chair. The fire. The rug that needs hoovering, its fibres, the crumbs. Leather. And…and…

…what was he thinking? Something about…there’s a case, and he has to - - it’s very important. Lestrade, and Mrs…and John, and _John_ , but he can’t think of John, because…

‘Stay with me.’

He tries to nod. That accent is too soft, warm honey drooping from a spoon, hanging, hanging…and then a sweet rush that helps him calm, and makes it worse in the same breath. His thighs are quivering, and it’s…

‘Look.’

Can’t look. But then the heat is…Sherlock tips his head back and shows his throat, and blood rises up to sing in his ears. Because the only other sound is soft and wet, and there it is again, and he can’t, just can’t, he just ca-

‘Look.’

His head lolls forward. It’s all so very far away, his blue dressing gown crumpled open, and the white of his T-shirt. And…and his grey sleep pants which are dragged down to show white, trembling skin, so very white in contrast to the deep red of his cock, jutting out all strained and aching, crying white tears, wet down to the root from the gentle ministrations of Jim Moriarty’s wicked mouth.

‘You’re very pretty when you’re desperate, Sherlock.’

He closes his eyes, and tries not to come. He was told not to come, and he was going to fail and fail again, but the devil knows what he’s doing and every time it was simply too much, all that beautiful, evil soft wet heat just went away. Left him hanging on a brink he can’t bear, but it’s too good to end and he hasn’t got words to complain if he wanted to.

‘Look at you. Three seconds from begging.’

Three seconds is kind. Sherlock tries to muster vocal chords into action, to make any sound that isn’t a helpless moan. But then those lips whisper down the underside again, and nuzzle into the root where his swollen balls are tight and fat, and all he can do is groan once more. His cock weeps and Jim makes his own sound, amused and pleased, and his tongue dabbles its way back up to swirl the evidence of need away.

‘Shall I let you come in my mouth? Do you want to?’

Sherlock’s head is loose, a ball on elastic neck. It’s the best he can do for a nod, because this has been going on _so long_ , and it was not what he expected when the bedroom door opened, and Jim wandered out. He looked so casual, almost normal, like they might talk, and that was all he thought would happen, right until the moment Jim dropped to his knees in front of him and drew down the front of his pants. How long ago was that? A lifetime, a world away.

He croaks, ‘yes,’ and gets a chuckle, and a kiss on the crown which turns into a soft slide of slick lips. They envelop the head, all plump and dripping and red, and Sherlock steels himself for the hell of trying to control himself for another slow plunge into a willing throat. But no, it’s worse, he’s said the wrong thing…they clasp the first inch only and suckle there, tiny swipes of a gentle tongue right on the most sensitive patch of all. He feels the tip harden and draw a line at the ridge and he’s crying out, everything drawing together for the final time, this has to be it, he _can’t_ …and then the mouth pulls back and he sags again, his whole body one long broken sob.

‘Up.’

Can’t. What? No.

‘Bedroom.’

Impossible. He heaves for breath as Jim stands, bends, folds his cock into a careful palm.

‘Now.’

One word, and he’s struck with the idea that if he doesn’t comply, all this might stop. There are reasons why that’s important, but he can’t remember them. Can’t think. The onslaught of his brain is hunkered under a thick blanket of lust, and the peace is heaven, and the touch is…not what he expected, and he’s not willing to give it up.

He stands. His legs don’t feel like they belong to him, but Jim strokes his cock once, teasing the tip, and it’s enough to propel him towards the prospect of more. He hears, ‘clothes,’ and does as he’s told, letting the pants drop, tugging the gown back as he walks, pulling his T-shirt over his head and leaving them in a trail on the floor.

The bedroom is dim, lit only from the lamp down the street. Enough to see the bed covers are turned back, and enough to make this seem all the more surreal. He should be afraid, possibly, but it’s all too much to worry about that; too much to find it strange, too good to be unnerved. The vision of Jim between his legs, sucking his cock with the sweetest mouth, looking up at him with those eyes alight with…probably amusement, who cares, he was enjoying it and it was peaceful and calm, right up until the second Sherlock knew he was too far gone to stop anything that might happen tonight.

‘On your back.’

The sheets are cool. No fire in here except the one in his blood, and that’s all he needs. He watches Jim stand next to the bed, and hides nothing from his gaze. There’s no point trying to cover, the man knows exactly what he’s done. The only reason he’s moving his hand between his legs is that it’s been thirty seconds since there was touch, and that’s far too long.

‘No.’

His hand falls away. Jim pulls his own T-shirt off, and then drops his pants. There’s light enough to see the state of his arousal, and Sherlock isn’t going to pretend he isn’t looking. It’s a fat thing, shorter than his own, but like everything to do with Jim Moriarty, it’s scarily impressive. He should be scared, but he’s not. He can remember the weight of it on his tongue, and the way it twitched before it emptied into his mouth.

‘You can suck it in the morning. I’ve shown you how to do it right.’

The mattress dips under his weight as Jim kneels on it. It’s some kind of instinct to open his legs to give him room, and isn’t that the strangest thing? Something to consider in the morning, if he remembers, and he’s not sure he will. The desperation from the living room is giving way to a different kind of knowledge; something inevitable and raw, and he feels the soft skin on the inside of his thighs draw tight again, hairs raising, goose bumps on tender flesh. He gasps when Jim’s hands hook underneath, and open him further still. The ultimate vulnerability, and all he feels is want.

‘So pretty.’

‘Jim…’

‘Ssh.’

The darkness shifts and it takes a second to realise what’s happening. Mouth, again. Sherlock keens quietly as he slips back into heaven, but he can’t push deeper because his thighs are held wide. They go taut and Jim’s arms flex to hold him still, muscle pushed against muscle, locking him down so he’s helpless to do anything but lie there and take that soft wetness teasing and sucking at his length. His voice quavers high and he _twists_ , choking even as Jim laughs through his centre, the vibrations taking him to a place where thought is a distant memory, something he may never find again. And that’s it, it has to be it, he simply cannot take any more…

…and then it’s gone again, and Jim is tonguing his balls and Sherlock is a quivering wreck of overwrought nerves, helpless in this grasp.

‘Hold on. You’re doing well.’

Good, that’s good. He likes doing well. He remembers that. He tries not to focus on his cock and the unbearable ache at its core, but thinks of the tongue instead because he can’t ignore it. It’s right there, licking and…licking, and…oh fuck, he knows what’s coming next, and there’s no way to prepare, he has no context, no clue, no…

‘Oh. Oh oh _oh ohhh_ …’

It’s so soft. So very slow, dragging over the one place he _knew_ he was giving up but somehow didn’t _know_. Not like this, not so…it’s so…gentle, and wet, and so…he’s never been this exposed, flat on his back with his legs parted, his asshole being teased open and it should be the most awful thing in the world, but all he wants is for it to never, ever stop. Nerves flare that he’s only read about in anatomy books, muscles contract, and instead of it being wrong it’s the most wonderful alien, open thing. Better than cocaine, better than speed, better than the sweet lull of heroin. He can’t understand why it doesn’t feel awful, and it’s not the time to analyse why. He just groans and melts, helpless, and then Jim’s fingers slip over his thigh and tickle the tip of his cock and he’s dripping all over again, on the brink all over again, biting the edge of his hand to try and hold back as Jim’s thumbnail scores a sweet line through the wetness falling out of him.

‘This might be my favourite sight of you yet.’

Not important. Who cares. There’s a plastic click and a plunger being pressed, and Jim says, ‘breath in,’ so he does, and then, ‘breath out,’ so he does, and as he does he feels his body loosen and accept a slick finger as it eases its way inside.

‘If you found that difficult, this is going to be murder.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Can’t?’

‘Take. Much…m- _ohhhh_ …’

It doesn’t hurt. He can’t breathe again. Jim sounds quietly delighted, but he has through all of this.

‘You can. Now, let’s play.’

What the hell have they been doing until now? Sherlock drags his head up to try and look, but all he can see is one leg being held wide, the other bent to offer himself up – and he did that himself because Jim let it go, he didn’t realise…and he can see Jim kneeling and one beautiful arm, taut and working slightly, muscles shifting as he draws his finger back and forth. Slow, yes, but it brooks no argument.

‘Ready?’

‘…for…’

It’s the only word he can manage before stars explode behind his eyes, and he curls inward in a rush of lost air. Of course he knows what this is, every man knows it’s there, but it’s never been touched like this, not with a teasing fingertip pushing back and forth, not with the sole plan of making his world implode. He makes a sound that’s raw and hurts his throat, and it keeps going until the fingertip retreats and he sags, quaking, trying to push down to get it again.

‘That’s where I’m going to come.’ Jim’s voice is a whisper in the dark. ‘Right there, so you can feel it.’

Sherlock scrabbles at his arm. _Now_ though, _now_. And that laugh again, which should be malicious but isn’t, and another wet pump somewhere to his right. He hears the slip of lube over tight skin, and then Jim’s thighs pressed up close to his ass; a shadow towering over him, the promise of weight about to descend.

‘I’m not using protection. I always do, but not with you.’

Sherlock does not care. Nothing matters. He pulls at thick shoulders and makes a noise, and another when the finger disappears for good, and then another, and another, as he feels himself stretch. ‘Oh,’ he says, and chokes again, and then whines as the intrusion halts where it is. His mind supplies the image of that thick head pushing him open, his own clench around it, and it’s all he can do not to whine.

‘Breathe in.’

Yes.

‘And out.’

Yes.

‘In.’

In. _In_.

‘Out’…and Sherlock keens as he does because that’s it, his body opens and takes Jim in, and his fingers dig into hard flesh and it’s so good, everything is _this_ and it’s quiet in his head but screams through his body, and…Jim is not pulling back, he’s just pushing and pushing, grunting above him in a sudden show of need all of his own, and Sherlock’s hands grip at his back, his ribs, grab at his ass and pull him deeper still. All the way in, all of it, until they’re locked together and he’s still pulling for more, Jim still pushing for more, gasping into each other’s mouths from an inch apart.

‘Fuck.’

‘ _Fuck_.’

Moving, or not, he can’t tell it doesn’t matter. There’s a burning spot at his centre and pressure over it, and then Jim’s weight pressing his thighs wide, grinding over his rigid cock, chest to chest and rasping breath above his ear. There has never been a moment where he only exists in one time, one place, and one thought, but this is it. Nothing else, nothing to analyse, nothing to deduce. His head rocks back, Jim shoves once more and Sherlock breaks with a cry, pulling this man in with all his might as he lets go, spilling himself against the solid, immovable force pressing him down.

Somewhere in the white noise, he hears Jim moan. But that’s all. There’s nothing more through his overloaded senses, and when it starts to seep back in the first thing he realises is that Jim is panting above him and his ass is trembling in Sherlock’s hands. He looks up to find dark eyes watching him, more open than he’s seen them before. Less filled with numbers and angles, strangely dazed. He’s come, then. The knowledge brings a pang of sorrow. He would have liked to have watched it happen.

‘Well.’

Yeah.

‘You didn’t fake that.’

He has to smile, because he can’t do anything else. No, he didn’t fake that. And all he can do is drag his hand up Jim’s body, and clasp him at the back of the neck. There’s a second of resistance, and a fleeting thought that Jim’s unsure for once. But then he gives and allows his head to be drawn down so they can rest, forehead touching forehead, the only way Sherlock can think to convey how he feels.

 

 

*

 

 _O3:17_.

 

The bed is empty when he wakes up. Still, the silence. It’s as if no time has passed at all. He could have just closed his eyes after sex, then opened them and this would be the scene. Except Jim’s not here.

Sherlock rolls to his side. His ass aches and his leg muscles feel the way they do after a run. Realising he’s aware of the mundanity of physical form, it’s clear the peace is gone. Normal service has resumed. His mind is ticking over at regular speed, and everything is as it was. Just sex, then? Nothing different at all?

No, something is different. And when he tries to poke at why, he shies away from it. Fine. Later. He gets up instead, takes a pair of boxers from the drawer, and smells smoke as he puts them on. When he walks to the kitchen, Jim is framed in the living room window with a cigarette in casual fingers.

It’s the only thing that’s casual. The streetlamps glow on shoulders that are too square, and hips that are held in place, not relaxed. Sherlock hesitates, then walks over and comes to lean beside him. He’s not wearing a shirt. Up close, there are red scratches on his shoulder. Smoke streams out of his nose and after a pause, the cigarette is held out. Sherlock takes it. The first drag is glorious.

‘Did you find-?’

‘Brought some with me.’

Naturally. Sherlock has another pull, and offers it back. Jim takes it, never looking at him. He seems to be drinking London in with his eyes, though all you can see from this window are the houses opposite and the rest of Baker Street. The silence is not as easy as it should be. And…Sherlock hasn’t got a clue what to say. His mind flips through everything he knows about sex and one-night stands, which focuses more on anatomy and biology than any social etiquette. The run through feelings takes an embarrassingly short space of time, though he would have been proud of that a few days ago. Who does sex, then? Molly. John. What have they ever said about it? Only John is any use, with his girlfriends in the house the morning after, coy sometimes, or brazen, or friendly, or slinking out without a backward glance. John is usually cheerful though, and Jim is not, so maybe he’s the one who’s supposed to jolly things along?

‘It was-‘

‘Stop it.’

His mouth closes so fast his teeth click together. Jim takes another drag, and stubs the butt out on the glass.

‘What you know about other people won’t work on me.’

‘I was just-‘

‘I know.’

Of course Jim knows. But if Sherlock had thought about this bit at all, he would have assumed Jim would be happier with it. He certainly seemed to be laughing while it was going on.

‘I’m not good at this part.’

Jim shrugs one shoulder.

‘Was I at leas-‘

‘You were good.’

‘Good. That’s…’

Good. He clears his throat. ‘You were spectacular.’

‘I know.’

‘Well. It bears saying.’

Another shrug, and Sherlock feels heat rise to his face. Is it always so awful afterwards?

‘I’m going to make tea.’

Nothing. He hesitates, and then lifts his hand to brush, very gently, the top of Jim’s shoulder. It’s cold.

‘Will you come back to bed?’

‘…maybe.’

‘…right.’

Jim doesn’t move and still hasn’t looked at him. Not the time, then. Sherlock nods and retreats, a weight settling into his stomach. He gave him what he wanted, didn’t he? It was what they both wanted in the end. And he has no idea about these things, but even he’s sure it’s not supposed to feel like this.

He looks over once while the kettle boils. Jim hasn’t moved. He doesn’t look like anything’s changed at all.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

****

 

 

 

_09:42. Day Five._

 

Night melts to grey, hazy hours of not-sleep and not-wake, darkness lingering in the early winter morning. During one spell of awareness, he knows Jim has come to bed; in another he’s gone, but he’s not sure which is real and which is a dream, because when he reaches out there’s nothing to touch and when he’s tucked into a ball there’s a hand on his back, but when he wakes up properly neither is true. Maybe both were true. Schrodinger’s…dream? Schrodinger’s life. He closes his eyes and wills everything to be clear like it was a week ago. A set of plans, and one noose for the madman’s neck. Now it’s he who feels pressure on his throat…but maybe that’s a different kind of dream.

Another thought penetrates, and he sits up straight.

‘My phone.’     

When did he last see it? Yesterday. Yes? An irritated murmur, mostly asleep, comes from somewhere to his left.

‘You drained the battery. Porn, when you thought I wouldn’t notice.’

‘I’m surprised you did,’ he mutters, and gets out of bed to ignore the snort of laughter before Jim dozes off again. Sherlock has no idea what time he came in, but he knows enough about his sleep patterns by now to realise there aren’t any. If Jim wants to be awake, he’ll be awake. He clearly doesn’t, and that’s fine. Sherlock plugs his phone in and flicks the kettle on. By the time he’s done in the shower – which _stings_ , you don’t learn that from porn – the thing is beeping over and over, text after text, _missed called, missed call_ , and he’s about to swear and pick it up to reply to one of them when it rings again in his hand.

‘Mycroft.’

‘Where the _hell_ have you been?’

Oh dear. Sherlock pours boiling water over the leaves, keeping the frown out of his voice. ‘I’m sure you don’t want me to answer that, no matter what Jim says. Have you been to sleep yet?’

‘Downstairs. Now.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes and hangs up. The days are long gone when he jumps at every snap of his brother’s fingers, so he finishes making the tea and pours two cups, takes one into the bedroom to leave on the nightstand in case Jim wakes up. And…yes, spends a minute watching him, because he’s never seen this before. Something new; James Moriarty at rest. He breathes quietly when he’s sleeping, though it’s not the deep rest he probably needs. His fingers are moving on the crumpled bottom sheet, maybe dreaming, maybe thinking even now. But his face is sweeter with his eyes closed, and his hair is soft and out of place - it wasn’t even like that during sex, from what Sherlock can remember. He was perfectly composed down there on the floor, drawing his mouth up and down, so slowly, so in control, so…

The phone rings again. Jim’s eyes fly open and it takes half a second for annoyance to flash over his forehead, and then crumple into a scowl.

‘Just fucking go and talk to him.’

‘Yes. There’s t-‘

‘I know. Go away.’

Sherlock nods, noting the dismay that blooms in his chest before it’s pushed away by cool composure. Jim clamps his eyes shut again, but he probably won’t sleep now. Sherlock curses in his head and stalks out of the room, sipping defiantly as he clumps down the stairs to Mycroft and his stupid umbrella, both imperious in the hallway. ‘In here,’ he says, pointing the thing towards Mrs Hudson’s door. Sherlock scowls this time but follows, kicking himself for not having taking precautions in that direction. 221C, as well. The whole place will have to be swept.

‘Good morning, brother dear. I see you got a few hours’ sleep. Feeling better?’

Mycroft pushes the door shut with the tip of his umbrella. ‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’

‘You _know_ wh…is this charade over with yet?’

‘No.’

Sherlock riffles through cupboards, pretending to look for biscuits. And actually finds some, which is a bonus. Not Ginger Nuts, but Jammy Dodgers will do in a pinch.

‘Sherlock, do you know how much this operation is costing?’

‘I don’t care. Do you want a biscuit? Mrs Hudson usually gets-‘

‘I’ve had John on the phone, wanting to know-‘

‘-cake in for me, but I suppose I can’t blame-‘

‘He’s very angry at you, and nearly assaulted one of my officers-‘

‘I mean, you’ve got her in a cell somewhere by now, I expect. Mince pies in a couple of weeks, th-‘

‘ _Sherlock!_ ’

‘She does like to start Christmas early, which I’ve told her is ridiculous. Corporate greed and pointless tradition, and she falls for it every year.’

He pops a Jammy Dodger into his mouth whole. The jam bit is always chewy, and takes a bit of working to be properly munchable. He gets going on it while Mycroft glares.

‘Tell me _something_ good.’

‘…well, he’s very good in-‘

‘Not. That.’

Sherlock swallows, and washes the crumbs down with tea.

‘I’ve got two more days, Mycroft. I _will_ win.’

‘You’re just prostituting yourself to do it.’

He laughs, he can’t help it. ‘Is _that_ what you’re concerned about? My…what? Modesty? Moral fibre? Please. You’re ridiculous. And might I remind you, it’s less than forty-eight hours since you stood out in that hallway, and told me the world would thrive without James Moriarty in it. An armed unit on standby, wasn’t it? Something like that, I wasn’t really listening. But you’re going to stand there and moralise to me? For God’s sake – and you say I’m the one alarmed by sex.’

Mycroft is very pale. He has rested, but only looks worse for it. And things must be desperate, because when Sherlock steps in to scrutinise him up close, he doesn’t make a sarcastic remark, he doesn’t put the umbrella up between them in defence, he doesn’t step away.

‘What are you so afraid of, Mycroft? What’s he got on you?’

The smirk is not at all convincing. ‘Do you never consider that I might simply be concerned for your wellbeing?’

‘Not for a second.’

He makes a show of looking, closer still, and Mycroft again fails to pull back.

‘This time last week, you were ready for me to fake my suicide, tell all my friends I was dead, and disappear for however long it took to destroy Jim’s network. Concern for my wellbeing? You don’t give a damn about it as long as it’s working for you.’

‘That’s simply not true.’

‘Oh God, we’re not going to have brotherly displays of affection now, are we?’

He steps back and selects another biscuit. Mycroft straightens his jacket, which is an outrageous giveaway of his state of mind and he doesn’t seem to be conscious he’s done it.

‘It’s one thing to tell our parents you’re going to be ruined in the press, and pretend to be dead. Quite another for it to be true.’

‘So, you’re doing this for them? What do you think they’ll say when I tell them you sacrificed three people, _my friends_ , because it suits you to have Jim dead?’

‘You’d be alive, Sherlock.’

‘I’m alive now. And he’s already told me he’s not going to kill me, so come up with some other lame excuse.’

‘You believe him because you want to. Because it’s good for your ego.’

‘No. Because it’s true. Because he knows it’ll hurt me more. So go back to your little surveillance room, Mycroft. Tell John to calm down. Forty-eight hours, and this will be over.’

He picks up all the biscuits – stupid to let them go to waste – and heads to the door. There are more interesting things to do than this.

‘What if it’s not over?’

He pauses. Half-turns. Mycroft hasn’t moved an inch.

‘What if he’s persuading you to do what he wants, and you don’t even know it?’

‘He’s not persuading me of anything. He barely talks, even when I question him. He’s not trying to make me do things, he’s trying to make me know him.’

‘And you don’t think, of all people in the world, James Moriarty is capable of making you talk yourself into a corner? He’s playing with you, Sherlock. You’re just too naïve to see it.’

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder. Mycroft appears positively ill in this light, but there’s just no time for this.

‘Maybe it’s me that’s playing with him. You’re just going to have to trust me, Mycroft.’

‘When has that ever worked out well for either of us, brother mine?’

 

*

 

It’s impossible not to consider the truth of those words as he takes the stairs to 221b. All the times he’s promised to stay clean, walking out of the house into the arms of a dealer. The times he’s promised he’ll stay in rehab, and broken out three days later. Even when he started school, _yes, I’ll work hard; no, I won’t annoy the other boys; no, I won’t show up the teachers; yes, I’ll behave this term_ …not once had he ever kept his promise, or even meant to.

Maybe Jim is justified in being angry at him for wasting what he had. For a boy watching on, desperate for another mind to talk to, someone to _play_ with…watching him sulk about the place, rejecting everyone, fogging his brain up – he can see why that might be difficult. Sherlock pops another biscuit into his mouth and muses his way through the kitchen, topping up his tea from the pot as he passes. What’s he supposed to do about it, though? He can’t change who he was back then, and he might be a pain in the arse to the people in his life – even he can’t hide from that fact – but he doesn’t let them down in practical matters. In other ways, he probably does. He’s improved though, right? John seems to think so, or he wouldn’t still be his friend.

‘You’re thinking very loudly.’

‘It happens.’

Sherlock gets back into bed, distracted but still taking in the available information. Jim doesn’t sound remotely sleepy, but he hasn’t moved from his sprawl. It’s either designed to show that he doesn’t care about whatever Mycroft wanted or, more likely, he really doesn’t care. It’s a good look on him, and he probably – definitely – knows that too. Cute, almost, as long as his eyes stay closed.

‘Did he call you a whore?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good for him.’

Sherlock huffs and finishes his tea, then lies down on his side to watch the back of Jim’s head in silence. The room settles. It’s eerily quiet with no traffic outside, but the air thickens almost at once, weighing more and more, until-

‘…what?’

‘I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.’

Jim sighs, long-suffering, and doesn’t bother moving. ‘Nothing’s changed. I’m still not going to help you.’

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I mean…this. Now.’

‘Which bit is causing you trouble?’

Sherlock blinks a few times. ‘I don’t…hadn’t really thought, actually. Do people talk? Do they…do it again? Or…’

He trails off because he’s not sure what the other options are. People in relationships – not that this is a relationship, he assumes – have never loomed large in his mind, even when he’s dissecting them and explaining why they shouldn’t be together, or someone’s cheating, or someone’s stealing the others’ money, or whatever. That’s all obvious. But _this_ …

Jim sighs again and rolls to his back, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. ‘You really do never shut up, do you?’

‘This is not news to you. Except you know I do.’

‘Mm. Well, to answer your incredibly boring and obvious question – people do whatever they feel like doing, or whatever they have to do. Sometimes they have to get up for work, so they do that. Most people do have normal jobs, you know? They talk if they want to talk. Some of them even _cuddle_. If they want to do it again, they do it again. There aren’t rules th-‘

‘Do you want to do it again?’

‘I see that you do.’

‘That’s not what I s-‘

‘ _Please_ Sherlock, _try_ to remember that I’m not an idiot. And one day you’ll realise I know your mind better than you do.’

‘That-‘ was rude. ‘-is simply not true.’

Jim smirks at the ceiling. Sherlock frowns at it, annoyed…and annoyed by the fact that he does want to do it again.

‘We can discuss that some other time. How do I know you want to do it again? Partly because you asked the question, and mostly because I’m very good at it. Also, because once you’ve got something new to learn you’re relentless until you’ve acquired all possible data. It’s the way it’s always been with you. Look at yesterday and the secretive porn. You were trying to learn as much as you could before we did it, though I could have told you you wouldn’t learn anything useful from that rubbish.’

Sherlock concedes this is true. The mechanics were obvious anyway; slot A, tab B, he didn’t need it for that. He was just curious. But porn conveys nothing of the weight of a man on top of you, or the way muscles work, and the ache, and the glorious sensation when your body takes over and reacts at the whim of someone else. Or the way you wake up feeling like you’ve run five miles, and really, really want to run a few more.

‘Yes, fine. There are…interesting points to it.’

Jim levers himself up to rest on the pillows, then stretches for his cup with a gentle curl to his lips. ‘Yes, I could tell you were…interested.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

He wants to ask why Jim closes off when they’ve finished. It’s happened twice now, but there’s no point broaching the subject. He suspects that’s another thing he’s got to work out for himself.

‘So.’

‘Mm.’ Sherlock’s fingers scratch uneasily at the sheet beneath him. ‘Do you want to, then?’

‘I’m at your disposal, Sherlock.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

Half a shrug. Sherlock bites his lower lip, then tries to pretend he hasn’t. It’s weird lying down, looking at someone else lounging above.

‘Can I…look at you?’

‘You already are.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Another sigh, but at least this one is more amused. ‘Do what you want.’

It’s not the enthusiastic participation of last night – he’s sure he’ll never forget the way Jim stalked through the kitchen towards him, the air electric as he dropped to his knees – but he supposes it’s up to him to change that. So, Jim sips his tea and Sherlock pushes the quilt down to his knees, shifting until he’s got his cock at eye level.

‘You’re going to make it blush.’

‘That’s probably a thing from romance novels, isn’t it?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. I read one when I was a child.’

‘Your mother’s?’

‘Mycroft’s.’

There’s a beat of silence. And then a hoot of laughter so loud it makes his ears ring, and it’s so sudden, so genuine, he can’t resist grinning up at Jim who is staring down at him with unreserved joy, a moment of…he doesn’t have a name for it. But it feels good.

‘This whole week was worth it just for that.’

Sherlock pretends to sniff, but he’s still smiling. ‘I would hope there are other reasons.’

‘Oh, well…’ Jim lowers a finger, and flicks a curl off Sherlock’s forehead. ‘We’ll see.’

‘I suppose we will.’

He returns his gaze to Jim’s cock. It’s plumper than it was a moment ago. It was already a fat thing, resting uneasily on the sac below, and he can’t resist bringing his fingers to the skin casing the head and drawing it back gently.

‘You did say I could suck it in the morning.’

‘I did.’

He cranes his head over Jim’s thigh and licks the corona. The shaft is firming up under his fingertips, but Jim just sips from his cup and is probably watching, but Sherlock is too engrossed to care. He’s sucked it once of course, but it was already hard then. This is different; he catalogues the working inside, superficial dorsal and deep dorsal veins filling slowly; the corpos cavernosum drawing him up, suspensory ligament pulled into play, corona swelling-

‘It won’t work if you just stare at it.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

But it seems to be working just fine. Sherlock extends his tongue and swipes at it again, then wets his lips and pushes the tip between them. It tastes of soft clean skin, and it’s very warm. He rubs his tongue under the shaft and feels Jim breathe out quietly; that’s good, very nice, so he lets it rest there as he suckles the head, enjoying it swell at the entrance of his mouth. So odd to think this has been inside him. Another person _inside_ him, and he squeezed it and made it let loose in the dark of his body, and now here he is taking it into him again. Sex is so _weird_.

‘Stop thinking so much.’

Sherlock quirks his eyebrows.

‘Yes yes, I know – but as I proved yesterday, even you and I can switch off with this.’

Sherlock retreats, but not far. His fingertips rub the foreskin up over the head and back, slowly, very slowly. Muscles move in Jim’s leg.

‘You’re not switched off, though.’

‘My thoughts are aimed in one direction. It’s good enough for now.’

‘Are they usually all over the place?’

Jim clicks his tongue, and finally deigns to put his teacup down. ‘We can talk about that later, if you must. Focus.’

‘Mm.’

He’s happy to focus on this. He tilts his head to watch closer as it rises, and holds the shaft in a light grip of thumb and forefinger. It fattens quicker when he’s touching; quicker still when he remembers what Jim did to him last night and tries the same thing. Lips in a soft kiss on that most sensitive patch, suckling it warm and wet. Jim’s fingers touch his back, tracing the curve of his shoulder blade, and Sherlock feels him exhale through his whole body; sagging in millimetres at the chest, stomach, shoulders, softening everywhere except in his cock, which stretches up and out as if reaching for where it wants to be. Sherlock wets his lips again, swallows, and knows he’s staring but can’t even try and stop.

‘Ohhhhh, look at you,’ Jim says, lazy and quiet and amused, and Sherlock feels a fingertip run across his cheekbone. ‘So _proud_ of yourself.’

It’s true. Look at what he’s done. He eases forward and brushes his lips along the tip. He’d gasped when it happened to him; Jim doesn’t, but that’s okay. Sherlock does it again and then pushes it between his lips, rubbing it on the inside of his soft wet mouth. He’s very slow, just like Jim was yesterday but without - he’s sure – the pure, raw sexuality; the utter control. That’s okay too, he thinks. Hopes. Too late to worry about it now. Sherlock slides him over his tongue and focuses on the weight, the heft, the lovely smell of skin that’s been lived in for a few hours. Not clean, not unclean, living proof that James Moriarty is a human being that breathes, and sweats, and _exists_ , and is in his bed. Sherlock exhales this time, and sinks him lower as a rush of something like gratitude rolls up through him. He doesn’t know what there is to be grateful for, except this is a thing that has happened and _is_ happening, right here in this moment.

‘Harder. Go on.’

For the first time in his life, Sherlock almost follows an instruction without thinking. It feels _right_ to tighten his mouth and suck with more pressure. He wants to. But in the split-second between hearing and doing, he pauses. And does not suck harder. He sucks softer; a gentle tease and a hint of tongue, and Jim grunts quietly in surprise. His cock twitches against Sherlock’s plump lower lip.

‘Like that, is it?’

Fingertips back on his cheekbone. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter as they close, and Jim tuts softly against his teeth.

‘Do you want me to beg, Sherlock?’

Does he? No. Maybe? James Moriarty doesn’t beg for anyone, he’s sure. Not when he’s just being himself and not playing a character. And he doesn’t want Jim to play a character for him, he wants…him. Here, like this, no pretence to get in the way. Unrealistic and he couldn’t admit it even if his mouth weren’t full, but the dream brings a noise out of him anyway. Quiet need, as he works slowly up and down the first two inches, his own cock starting to push insistently against the sheets.

‘You think it’s not a real question. Because of course I won’t beg.’

Jim laughs as his head falls back and stays resting on the wall. Sherlock is vaguely aware of it as he tries to watch, but his neck won’t twist that way so he focuses on taking him deeper instead. Jim moans and his fingers make their way into Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp as his legs muscles tense and relax, tense and relax, matching the rhythm of Sherlock’s softly working mouth.

‘The fact you don’t… _nh_.

…understand how st- - what an odd…assumption that is, shows you don’t…oh. Shows you don’t understand anything _yet, fuck_.’

The swear word bursts out like a bullet, and Jim’s head thumps against the wall. Sherlock releases his cock and just breathes for a moment, hyper-aware of his own wet lips that are fat from sucking, the flush on his cheeks, and Jim’s cock wavering in the air. Fingers still on his head, gently suggesting that to have an empty mouth is bad, ushering him back to where it will be full.

‘What don’t I understand?’ he says. Presses his erection into the mattress so it can rub, gives in to the pressure and pulls Jim back into his mouth.

‘Any…anyth-ing, _yes_ , do that harder.’

He doesn’t though. Softer still, and Jim’s inner thighs snap to tension and vibrate there a minute. It’s immensely gratifying, and there’s an electric flicker down in the middle of him, some knowledge that this kind of control is exciting in a way he’s never considered before.

‘You _do_ want me to beg.’ Jim is laughing, and it sounds real. It can’t be though, can it? ‘Innocent little Sherlock, who thinks I won’t. You don’t…ah.’

He tastes salt. Not a flood, just a hint. He drags his tongue heavily under the crown and Jim’s laugh crumbles into a moan, and, ‘please, Sherlock. Oh fuck, _please_ do that again.’

Sherlock frowns. And it takes a beat to realise that he has, and while realising it his mouth has paused as well, and Jim is still laughing. Just a bit, while his hips rock upwards, helping himself to the soft heat of available lips.

‘Want me to say it again? _Please_ , Sherlock. Suck me, c’mon. Please.’

He tightens his lips. Jim’s chuckle fades into a whine, and Sherlock feels his own cock deflate as his confusion expands. James Moriarty doesn’t beg. Surely. So, is he playing someone else after all? But…what was he saying before, about ego? It’s-

‘Ohhhhhhh, fff-‘

Sex isn’t just weird, it’s stupid. It’s as he’s always thought, and as he admitted to Jim – it makes _him_ stupid, and he can’t think clearly, and he’s reduced to whatever this is. Sucking an orgasm out of a man who wants to hurt him…and enjoying it, swallowing his load as there’s a moan of, ‘yes…Sherlock… _oh_ -‘ Allowing his head to be held in place as Jim undulates through his climax, using his mouth as he pleases.

When Jim lets go, his hands fall to the sides and stay there. Sherlock pulls back but stays mostly where he is, trying to blink his thoughts into order. It doesn’t help that his body doesn’t agree with his mind on what’s going on here; he may not be so hard anymore, but his breath is short and his heart is pumping away, strong enough to be felt as a throb in his neck, and wrist, and ears.

‘I never thought you’d beg.’

Jim makes an indeterminate sort of sound.

‘I wasn’t trying to make you.’

‘Why not?’

‘I…haven’t thought about it.’

Jim yawns, though it might not be genuine. Sherlock sits up, and takes a moment to put his hair back in place. Jim is probably looking at him, but he wouldn’t know because he can’t look back. Eventually; ‘you’ve never seemed the type.’

And Jim shrugs, the epitome of unconcerned. ‘You judge me by your standards. It’s a very stupid thing to do. You told Irene you’ve never begged in your life, and you’re proud of that so you expect me to be the same. You’re projecting your own ego on to me.’

‘I’m not.’

He probably is. Jim rolls his eyes, and idly massages his balls.

‘You should be used to me not behaving the way you think I will. I’m getting very tired of waiting for you to properly understand that I’m not like your little friends.’

‘I don’t think you’re like them. I said it before we met. You’re something new. I know that.’

‘And yet, we’re spending all this time together and you’re still confused when I go against expectation. You still can’t make me talk. Admit it, if you can - you thought it’d be done by now, didn’t you?’

Of course he did. But he shakes his head, and tries not to look too obviously defiant. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. I’m glad you surprise me. And I’m not an expert in this area, so I concede, Jim – if that makes you feel better – that I’m surprised you’d beg anyone for anything.’

‘And you don’t like it. It lessens me.’

‘I didn’t say that. No, don’t pull that face – I don’t know what I think about it, yet.’

Jim pulls the face anyway, and Sherlock looks away. The periodic table on his wall is so much easier to contemplate. Everything in its exact place; quantified, separated, known. It’s a mockery to have it overlooking this scene, and there’s an urge to pull it off the wall and fling it out of the window. Only for a second, though. He runs his fingers through his hair, then tidies it down again without thinking.

‘Do you beg everyone?’

‘If I feel like it.’

‘You’re lying.’ He has to be lying. Sherlock doesn’t even know why it bothers him, but it’s repulsive. ‘That doesn’t fit at all.’

‘Oh God. If you’re going to try and profile me, I’m going home. Did you want me to get you off, by the way? Because you’re talking your way out of that happening.’

‘No.’ Sherlock stands up, and tries to shake all this away. It doesn’t matter. Just another idiosyncrasy of someone who can’t be pinned down. ‘I mean, not now. Do you want a drink?’

‘Yes. And a cigarette. Sorry for the cliché.’

God, he’s infuriating. Sherlock puts a dressing gown on before entering the kitchen. It doesn’t matter about Mycroft’s staff potentially staring through the windows, but it does feel less exposing in front of Jim. He fills two glasses at the sink, and stares into the water disappearing down the plughole. Why does this bother him, then? Simply because he expected Jim to stay how he was last night. In total control, leading the way, exerting his superior knowledge to assert dominance; that yes, he’s supposed to be the captive, but he has the upper hand in all things intimate. And he’d let Jim lead, learn from him, prove he sees him as a person with things to share and thereby give him the connection he _must_ be looking for. Must be, or what would he be doing here? Everything about their every interaction screams that Jim wants Sherlock to notice him. Someone to be on his level.

He finds the cigarettes in the living room, and turns the box over and over in his fingers. Jim giving up a position of power like that, without being prompted…it just feels _wrong_. And he has no idea why.

‘I’m dying of thirst in here.’

‘…coming.’

It’s probably nothing. Jim’s changeable, he does what he wants. He’s insane, and therefore defies prediction. And this is not Sherlock’s area of expertise. Maybe it’s a completely normal thing. So he tries to seem unbothered as he hands the cigarettes and water over, even though he can’t bring himself to get back into bed. He drags the chair over instead, and puts his feet up on the mattress to look casual.

‘How did you get so good at this, then?’

‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘Sex. Everything else comes from you. This, you really need to do with other people.’

‘True. The theory’s nothing like reality.’ Jim lounges back on his pillows, and blows a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I started young. It’s not hard to find repressed deviants in a country where being gay was illegal.’

‘How young were you?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I suppose not. I’m just trying to get a picture. We’re very alike in some ways, but then there are things like this. It would make more sense to me, given how you feel about people in general, that you would have avoided touching them at all.’

Jim smirks. ‘You mean, it would make more sense that I be like you, because you find it hard to imagine anyone indulging in impulses you’ve deemed stupid. You realise your mother’s a genius, and she has sex? Mycroft’s a terrible role model for you, of course, but even you must see that being a genius does not mean you can’t fuck.’

‘…I’ve never given it that much thought.’

‘Liar.’

‘You haven’t answered my question, by the way.’

Jim offers the cigarette over, and Sherlock takes it.

‘I was twelve. The summer before my thirteenth birthday, a few weeks after I killed Carl.’

‘So…oh. I see.’

Sherlock takes a drag. It’s heaven, naturally. He always forgets why he’s supposed to be giving up.

‘Do you?’

‘I think so. There’s not much more grown-up than murder, at least the way you did it. I suppose you thought if you could do that, you might as well take anything else you want as well.’

‘Very _good_ , detective. Though I object to the word ‘take’. I just engineered the situation, and it was him that did all the taking.’

‘Older boy?’

‘Older man. The father of an old classmate. No, don’t look like that. It was entirely my choice. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for him.’

Sherlock smokes to make the expression of distaste go away. He’ll unpack what he feels about this later. For now, he wants Jim to keep talking. ‘Why? What did you do to him?’

‘The obvious.’

‘Not obvious to me, I’m afraid. Not this time.’

Jim takes the cigarette back, amusement sparking off him. ‘I got him used to regular visits, then set up a camera and pretended he was hurting me. The next day I told him if he didn’t give me what I wanted, I’d ruin him and his family, and he’d spend the rest of his short life in prison.’

‘…how old _was_ he?’

‘Oh, in his thirties. But-‘

Jim is positively gleaming with enjoyment at the memory. It’s like sitting in the same room as the sun.

‘-he was also a copper, and he wouldn’t last three days in prison. Especially charged with _that_.’

It’s interesting. The only times Jim’s talked about his work before, he’s seemed bored by it. Too easy. Even on the rooftop, all too easy. But this, such an early triumph…he’s loving this. Sherlock catalogues the details of him to sift through later, from the animated eyes, to the grin, to the cigarette moving through the air as he gestures.

‘Is he still alive?’

‘God, no.’

‘Killed himself.’

‘Bingo. But not before I got some very interesting information out of him.’

‘What information could you possibly want at that age? You didn’t have a criminal…’

He trails off. Jim is grinning even wider, and Sherlock bites his lip, and nods. Right. Of course. A copper.

‘I’d say it was fortuitous, but of course it wasn’t. You picked him for a chance to learn about Carl.’

He shouldn’t be impressed with the way Jim planned everything at age twelve – or rather, he knows other people would think he shouldn’t be impressed – but God, what a mind. He likes to think that if he murdered someone that young, he’d be the same. Of course he was meticulous about things then, as well…but he never considered killing. Which is probably a good thing.

But it lends itself to another question, uttered casually as he watches Jim happily smoking his cigarette. ‘What would you have done if you hadn’t found out about me? Do you think things would be different?’

The smile disappears. From sunlight to a graveyard moon, quicker than it takes to blink. ‘What?’

‘…just what I said. Do you think-‘ he doesn’t want to repeat it. He waves a hand instead. ‘Doesn’t matter. Speculation doesn’t mean anything. It’s a waste of time.’

‘I’d have been dead fourteen years ago.’

Sherlock opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

‘And everything that happens to you now is payback for that.’

Jim drains his glass of water, leaving half an inch at the bottom which he drops the butt of the fag in. He holds it out, and Sherlock takes it because he doesn’t know what else to do. He starts with, ‘what do you me-?’ but Jim is already lying down and turning onto his side, dragging the quilt up to his chin.

‘Go away. I want to sleep.’

Sherlock watches his back for a few seconds, then stands up without a sound. Going away sounds like an excellent idea, and he is happy to oblige because for God’s _sake_. Except when he gets to the door, and can’t help himself.

‘Holding me responsible for things when I didn’t know you existed…there’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t change it.’

No response. Sherlock watches his back, and a juvenile _it’s not fair_ is right there on his tongue. It _isn’t_ fair to blame him for decisions he made years ago, with none of the knowledge he has now – but Moriarty is not a stable man, and might not see it that way. And something else, of course…that if he can admit Sherlock has had that much influence on him in the past, it has to mean the influence is still there, doesn’t it? That he has been so clearly shaped by this one-sided relationship, that offering to make it two-sided _has_ to be the answer. Doesn’t it? _Doesn’t_ it?

‘Jim-‘

‘Go. Away.’

Sherlock is blinking again. But he goes away, closing the door quietly behind him. This is a breakthrough, but it doesn’t feel like a good one. And now he has to figure out what happened fourteen years ago, and what that has to do with now…and there’s only forty-eight hours left to do it.

 

 

 


End file.
